Dinner at the End of the Universe
by laurelnola
Summary: For everyone who ever hoped that the Doctor really *wasn't* alone for a thousand years on Trenzalore. Set after "The Day of the Doctor". The Doctor takes Clara to a famous intergalactic restaurant, for a dinner that changes...everything. Whoffle.
1. Reservations

**"Dinner at the End of the Universe"**

11th Doctor/ Clara

Summary: The Doctor takes Clara to dinner at a famous intergalactic restaurant, with some _very_ surprising after-effects. Set after "The Day of the Doctor."

**UPDATED A/N: Soooo, it occurred to me that I really needed to update this note at the beginning. Because when I started this fic, as you'll see in the first chapter, it all began as something happy, funny and light, inspired by the Doctor's line to Clara in "Time of the Doctor" about using the TARDIS for dinner reservations. I always thought it would just be about four chapters, max.**

**And then... the more I watched S8 (even though this story is almost entirely 11/Clara), the more I got the sense that what was going on between the characters had never been just flirty banter, but the foundation of a seriously epic love story. By the end of the season, and halfway through writing the story, I think I was determined to find a way to give them a happy ending that could be my new head-canon, because they, and those who shipped them, deserve it.  
**

**Lastly, I want to reiterate that this is an _11/Clara fic_. There is some (non-M rated) whoffaldi in a later chapter, but on the whole, this is 11/Clara's story, from start to finish.**

**Many thanks again to all the amazing reviews, follows, and faves. You are all awesome!  
**

* * *

"Wow, this really is some view," he hears her saying, and the Doctor smiles to himself.

All around them, a million stars are blinking, and the silver light of four nearby moons is shining down on the balcony where he's standing beside Clara. He feels her tiny height beside him, but doesn't bother to check how close she actually is. He's almost afraid to glance at her, because he knows she looks all-too-lovely even in the light of _one_ moon, let alone four.

And considering what looking at her normally does to his hands, giving them a mind of their own, he's a little unsure that he should risk it. So he takes another sip of his drink, then sets it down on the rail of the balcony, watching her from the corner of his eye as she mimics his action with her own drink.

Clara lets out a contented sigh, and he knows he should at least tell her how glad he is that she came with him tonight, of all nights, when there's so much to celebrate. He turns towards her, but before he can open his mouth, he catches sight of her eyes and something within in him goes strangely blank.

It's a moment later that he's dimly aware of something.. different. Clara's eyes, already large and lovely, have just about doubled in size, they're open so wide.

"Doctor?"

"That's me, yes."

"What are you doing?"

"Nothing, I'm doing nothing."

"Your hands are… sort of… somewhere new."

They both look down and the Doctor notices that his hands are firmly cupping Clara's breasts, right through her jumper.

"Er, yes, so they are. I didn't notice that until you pointed it out," he says, his hands firmly staying put.

Clara nods, as though agreeing about the weather. "And why are they there?" she asks him casually.

"No idea, best not to notice."

She pauses another moment. "Couldn't be the cocktails we just had, could it?"

He swallows. "That might be a working hypothesis."

"I see."

"Yes."

"So we should just not notice the effects until they wear off?" She asks, and they both look down at his hands for the second time, still stuck to her breasts as though glued to them.

"I'm going to go with yes."

"Should I also not notice that now they're somewhere else?"

The Doctor closes his eyes, because _now_ he's not noticing that his hands have slid down to grab her from behind. He yanks her closer, and she yelps.

"No, definitely we shouldn't notice that," he says, his voice a bit high-pitched.

"Um," she says, and he's determined not to compute the fact that her breath is now coming a bit faster, or that the beat of his hearts has significantly elevated, or that his trousers are suddenly uncomfortably tight.

"Is there a _reason_ we're not noticing this?" she asks.

He gives her a manic, fear-struck sort of smile. "What's to notice? I'm not doing a thing," he says, his eyes wide.

"So to be clear," she says, and she seems to have suddenly developed a difficulty with swallowing, which is safe for him to notice, so he concentrates on that. Until she says, "what you're doing is _not_ holding my arse?"

His mouth twitches and he tries to mentally look away from the fact that, out of every blissful experience in the universe, there's none he wants more than the one that's inches away from him. "No," he says. "And I'm definitely, _definitely_ not about to kiss you, either."

He says it just as his mouth descends on hers, and the feel of her lips against his, the sweet taste of her tongue when his delves in to seek it, makes his ancient brain short-circuit. He's never died in a way that stuck, but he's fairly sure this is what heaven will be like if he ever makes it there. He gasps into Clara's open mouth. When he pulls back, his forehead falls against hers.

"Oh, good," she says breathlessly. "I was a bit worried there for a minute." And then she pulls him even closer.

* * *

\- TWO HOURS EARLIER -

_Oh, you have a lot to do_…..

The mysterious curator's words are still ringing in his ears. They dance around the one phrase that is now etched across his consciousness, changing the whole of the universe, changing him.

_Gallifrey Falls No More_.

He bursts into the TARDIS where Clara is already waiting, and then nearly loses his breath at the sight of her.

The impossible girl, who had not only saved his body a million ways, but who had now saved everything on the inside, as well.

"Big day," she says, smiling at him.

Does she know? Can she possibly know what she's done for him, what today has meant?

"Big day," he agrees, because there are hardly any words that are adequate enough to thank a person for saving your entire planet, your species, your soul.

"We're going home, now, yeah?" she asks, as if she hadn't just been the savior of several billion lives on Gallifrey.

Home. She's given him back his home, and one day he'll be able to say those words again. _Going home_. Because _Gallifrey Falls No More_!

He almost laughs out loud with giddiness, but instead he runs to her, sweeps her in his arms and swings her around the control room, delighting in hearing her shriek with laughter.

"Oh no," he says, "not on a _big day_ like this." He sets her down and feels a rush of joy, looking at her flushed cheeks and hair slightly disheveled from his swinging her about.

"We have too much to do," he tells her. _Oh, we have a lot to do…_

"We, Clara Oswald, are going," he smiles and flips three levers on the TARDIS in rapid succession, "To. _Celebrate_!"

* * *

"There isn't," Clara says, laughing, even though she's looking right at it. "There really is a Restaurant at the End of the Universe?"

"Of course there is, it's the most famous restaurant anywhere," the Doctor tells her proudly, pointing at the lavish-looking white stuccoed building, it's pathway flanked with palm trees that sway gently in the night air.

It looks oddly Hollywood, except that the color on her tv's been adjusted, and the palm trees are gold, and the people standing at the entrance are pink-skinned with orange hair and blazing golden eyes. They look like humanoid versions of a sunset. She gazes at the restaurant again and shakes her head in wonder.

"And here I thought it was just a book by Douglas Adams," she says in awe.

"Oh, Douglas Adams!" the Doctor exclaims. "Lovely chap, I took him here once. He had the Improbability Wontons, if I recall correctly. Very attached to towels, for some reason, I suspect because they came in handy cleaning up the sick after flying the TARDIS, which is why, really, he only came with me that one time." He grins at her and Clara realizes her mouth is hanging open. The Doctor's eyes soften. "I was sorry to hear he passed away. I did send a card."

Clara blinks at him. "In a million years, I don't think I'll ever get used to half the things you tell me."

He beams at her, as though this is the nicest compliment she's ever given him. "Well, then we came to the perfect place. The Parisians make the best food in the universe."

She does a double take. "Wait, Parisians as in from Paris?"

"Yes, but the real Paris, this one, the planet."

"This planet is named Paris," she says, doubtfully.

"Of course, their entire civilization is centered around gastronomy. It's quite fascinating, really."

She feels slightly light-headed, so asks the only logical thing she can think of. "How is that any different from, you know, _our _Paris?"

"Ah," he says, rubbing his hands together gleefully. "Because _these_ Parisians have developed food that's not only delicious, it's _telepathic_."

"It's what?"

"Telepathic gastronomy!" he announces happily. "And not just telepathic, but _empathic_, as well. Food that lets you not only smell and taste and touch, but actually feel and experience new thoughts."

"What kind of new thoughts?"

"Well, there's all sorts of things you can choose. Say the chef was particularly happy the morning he made your crème brulee, you'll feel his happiness. Or if maybe you want a salad that can make you feel what it is to be a flower, turning to soak up the sun and pumping oxygen out of your leaves." He rocks on his heels, wearing that expression of wonder that she loves. "Most expensive food in the universe, actually, which is why their economy has been booming for four million years. It's quite a record."

Clara mouths approval, but then her brows furrow slightly. "If it's so popular, won't we have a hard time getting in?"

Now the Doctor frowns, as well. "That's a fair point. Hold on a minute." He leaps back into the TARDIS, disappears, and re-emerges a moment later, only now his clothes are smoking slightly.

"What happened?" she cries in alarm.

The Doctor waves a hand in the direction of the orange-haired reception host standing at a podium near the door. "Well," he says, patting out the smoke coming from his lapels, "apparently trying to get a reservation only three months in advance is considered a bit insulting." He lets out an exasperated breath. "It was, ah, _suggested_ with a taser gun that I go back a bit further."

"How far?" she asks, her eyes round.

"Three years," he says indignantly, patting his clothes some more. "On the bright side," he says, smiling suddenly, "I did get us a table with a view."

And she has to remind herself that this isn't a date. It's _not_. He's just taking her to dinner to say thank you. Not for romance. She drills it into her brain, and tries not to notice how very, terribly romantic the restaurant looks. Not a date.

She sighs just a little. "I don't suppose they have a cocktail bar, do they?" A glass of wine might be just what she needs to remember that this is just a friendly outing, celebrating a win.

But the Doctor only becomes more animated, grinning from ear to ear at the prospect. "Oh yes, indeed. The cocktails are a bit ingenious, in fact. They lower your inhibitions without actually making you drunk."

She frowns slightly. "How does that work, then?"

"They make your body do all the things it wants to do, but is usually held back by your brain. Last time I had one, I tried doing a cartwheel. Didn't quite make it, though," he sighs, but then brightens. "But I was in a much older body that time, so maybe this time it'll work without spraining anything."

His enthusiasm is so adorable, she can hardly contain her grin. "Well, then, you know what I think?"

He's grinning right back at her. "What?"

"I think it's been a long time since I did a cartwheel, too."

If possible, his smile gets even wider. "That's the brave-heart Clara I was waiting for."

He grabs her hand, and they nearly run into the restaurant, the TARDIS standing guard behind them. And Clara thinks that for a not-date, it's amazing how much she's willing to follow him anywhere.

* * *

\- to be continued in Chapter 2


	2. Cocktails

COCKTAILS

* * *

Clara beams as the Doctor takes her arm and folds it into his, leading her to the reception podium.

"Reservations for two," he says confidently.

The orange-haired host regards him with a slight curl of the lip. "Ah, yes. _Monsieur Three Months_, if I recall."

She expects the Doctor to bluster a bit, knowing his jacket is still smoking faintly, but, as always, just when she thinks she knows exactly how he'll react, he surprises her. She feels his bicep tense around hers and looks up to see his eyes narrow.

"Under the name of _the Doctor_," he nearly growls. "And make sure we're next to the window."

And Clara's stomach instantly fills with flutters, hearing the Doctor's voice drop to low and threatening, just because he's trying to make this evening special for her and someone is daring to stand in his way. It's those moments that remind her that for all his unlined face and floppy, eager-puppy whirling about, there's a very old, very dangerous man still inside somewhere. A man who is determined to impress her.

Mr. Orange must get the message, too, because instantly his demeanor changes, and he's laughing nervously. "Of course, monsieur, of course!" he says jauntily, bowing and beckoning them to step inside.

The Doctor gives him one final glare, and then turns beaming eyes on Clara, his face changing from dark to bright in one swift instant.

"I hope you like it," he whispers eagerly, and she squeezes his arm in reply.

As they go through the red double doors of the restaurant, Clara's stomach drops a second time at the sight of the lobby. The room is almost entirely gold and domed with glass, so that the moonlight from outside cascades off of every surface, illuminating golden, distorted reflections of Clara and the Doctor everywhere she turns.

"Oh, my," she breathes. Catching sight of herself reflected in the metallic walls, she realizes she's still wearing the clothes she wore to work this morning (was that only this morning?), and sighs lightly.

"I wish I was a bit more, you know, dressed up."

The Doctor looks at her in surprise, and then lowers his face close to her ear.

"Clara Oswald," he says, and it's in that same deep register he just used on the host, only this time, his voice is full of warmth, "you are already perfect in every way."

She closes her eyes, still clinging to his arm. Not. A. _Date_.

He holds on to her hand and leads her into the restaurant, which, to her surprise, looks very like a typical Parisian restaurant on earth, complete with a long bar, privacy booths, white tablecloths, gleaming silverware and flickering candlelight on each table.

The only thing that reminds her she's on an alien planet is the people, who seem to come from every corner of the galaxy, and all served by the same pink-skinned waiters who move with the grace of clouds edging along the sky.

"Now," he says brightly, "I believe you said you wanted a cocktail. And tonight," the Doctor continues, leading her over to the bar, and taking two waiting cocktails, handing one to her, "my Clara gets whatever she wants."

_Oh, couldn't this just once be a date?_

He takes the other shimmering turquoise drink in his own hand, and holds it up to her.

"What are we drinking to?" she asks, loving the happy expression on his face. If she could, she'd freeze that emotion in him, right at that moment, like a planet frozen in time, so that this happiness, this peace, would never leave him again.

"To you," he says, taking her hand in his once more, running his thumb across the bones of her wrist, "who makes the impossible, possible again."

She lets out a breath, still smiling at him, wishing she could tell him how glad she is for his sake.

"It was _your_ plan," she says, and his eyes soften with a million emotions she can see flashing through him at once- relief, humility, joy, and even the sheer disbelief that he, who has hated himself for so long for one act, may one day be able to find forgiveness.

"I wouldn't have stopped to think of it without you," he says plainly, and Clara tilts her head, gazing at him with pure affection.

"To a team effort?" she amends, and he rolls his eyes.

"Fine, a team effort, then," he says, his smile still warm.

They sip their drinks and Clara is pleased at the taste, which, in another surprise, reminds her of liquid wine gums.

"Not bad," she comments, and wants to laugh when the Doctor smacks his lips. "And you're sure they won't even make us tipsy?"

"Not even a bit," he says, holding up his drink and examining it. "Though in a few minutes, I should be ready for that cartwheel," he says eagerly.

"And me without any kind of camera," she sighs.

"Ha! Be glad you didn't bring one," he counters, taking her hand again and whirling her around as though dancing. "Artie and Angie would only find it and use it against you." He pulls her close and dips her with one arm. "Do you really want your students to see you doing the macarena on Facebook?"

"Good point," she nods sagely, and laughs again because he's already tugging her gently towards two gigantic glass doors.

"We can wait on the balcony until our table is ready," he says brightly, leading her out beneath a spectacular view of the planet's four moons.

"Wow," she says, "this really is some view."

And really, she tells herself later, it was only because she was so temporarily mesmerized by the beauty of that alien sky, the stars, the moons, and the lovely, lovely warmth of the Doctor standing close to her that she didn't notice that his hands were no longer holding hers.

They were holding another, very different, part of her entirely.

And in another few moments, she wasn't sure of her own name, because he was kissing her with such fever that she wondered if maybe, perhaps, possibly, she really _might_ be able to classify this as a date.

* * *

His forehead is against hers and they're both panting from lack of air.

"So," she says, still out of breath, "any chance you're still going to do a cartwheel?"

The Doctor looks down at his limbs, which are firmly wrapped around Clara's small body. Her arms, as well, are clutching him as though he's the only solid thing in the universe. Even though it's the very last thing he wants to do, he closes his eyes and concentrates on letting her go. His arms refuse.

"Erm, not unless you're planning to do one with me, it seems."

He hears her swallow audibly, and then give a nervous laugh. "Well, at least we weren't out here kissing and groping each other _in front of everyone_ on the balcony. That could have been really embarrassing."

His eyes dart around, registering all the amused grins looking their way. He lets out a squeaky chuckle. "Can you _imagine_?"

"Yes. _Vividly_."

Her cheeks are flushed and she's so indescribably precious to him.

"And what if we kept _on_ kissing?" he laughs again, in that same, ridiculous high-pitched voice that he wishes would go away. "What would they think _then_?"

But he says it because he feels his mouth moving towards her again, all of its own volition. He knows he should be thinking about the strongly-worded letter he intends to write to the owners about their cocktails, but Clara's lips are so close, like they have their own gravity, pulling him in, and all he can think of is the taste of her, and how it's making his mouth water, and….

"Monsieur Doctor?"

They both turn, still wrapped in each other's arms, and the Doctor faces one of the pink-skinned waiters, who is smiling pleasantly.

"Your table is ready, monsieur."

"Ah, yes," the Doctor says, and now he feels his own ears turning red. "The thing is, we, ah, don't seem to be able to…"

Clara's head falls against his chest with a groan of humiliation.

The waiter smirks. "Your first dinner here together, yes?" he says, and the Doctor can only look at him helplessly, his arms still glued to Clara.

The waiter nods and holds up a glass of red liquid, complete with a straw and paper umbrella. "An antidote to your cocktails," he says cheerfully, and holds the straw up for each of them to take a sip. "Don't worry," he leans in and whispers knowingly, "we get this a lot on first dates."

The Doctor pauses mid-sip and pulls back, watching Clara, who is now blushing harder than ever, as she wraps her lips around the straw.

Instantly, their limbs fall back to their sides, and a rush of cool night air wafts between them as they extricate themselves from one another. He expects to feel relieved by the sensation, but instead feels oddly disappointed. Until he replays the waiter's words in his ear again.

His first date. With Clara.

Suddenly, the Doctor finds himself beaming again. In fact, he has to fight down the urge to swagger across the floor as they're led from the balcony to their waiting table.

* * *

to be Continued in Chapter 3


	3. Starters

**A/N: Thanks to all who left reviews, favourited, and are following this story. If you're enjoying reading it, ****please do let me know in a review****, because your voice helps me figure out the direction of the story, and keeps me writing. Much like the Restaurant at the End of the Universe, I aim to please. :-)  
**

* * *

STARTERS

* * *

"_Big Bang Prawns_," Clara says, looking at the menu with a slight amount of trepidation.

"Ah, yes," the waiter nods proudly. "You spoon the hot gas into your mouth and only then does it explode into delicious bites of solid mass. With sauce," he adds helpfully.

Clara bites her lip to keep from smiling.

They're seated beside an enormous window that looks out on the same stars that just witnessed their spectacular display in front of everyone on the balcony.

She wonders idly how she's ever going to sit through an entire meal without thinking about the last ten minutes. Her lips are still tingling from the Doctor's kiss, she can still feel the heat from his body, which was so recently crushed against hers, and his scent is all over her, filling her nostrils.

She chances a peek at him and notices with surprise that he looks perfectly relaxed. More than that, he looks happy, confident even, smiling that particular smile that means he's just discovered something wonderful.

"_Wild Mushroom Bisque_?" the Doctor suggests, looking at his own menu. "No wait, that makes everyone who eats it want to stand in a circle." He frowns, then looks up at the waiter excitedly. "You don't happen to have any Jammie Dodgers, do you? Or custard?"

The waiter lifts an eyebrow. "No, monsieur."

"Pity," he says, and Clara resists rolling her eyes.

"Can I offer you another cocktail while you wait?" the waiter asks them.

"No!" she nearly shouts, and then looks over at the Doctor, who's wearing a bemused expression. "I mean, um, I'd prefer water, please." She lowers her voice and leans towards the Doctor. "Water won't make us.. you know, do more cartwheels, will it?"

He grins. "It's just water."

"Perfect," she says firmly. "Bring on the H2O."

"Very good," the waiter nods. "And if I might make a suggestion, perhaps the starter for sharing would be to your liking."

Clara exchanges a dubious glance with the Doctor. "Anything we should know about that one?" she asks, studying her menu again, which gives no other description than the title.

"No, mademoiselle, is it exactly what it says: a starter for sharing."

"That sounds safe enough," she says with relief, and the Doctor nods

"You're the boss." He hands his menu back to the waiter, who bows again, and is gone.

Clara laughs nervously, trying to look anywhere but the Doctor's face and failing miserably. How _can_ he just sit there, cool and collected when her heart is racing?

Oh, right. Because they weren't supposed to _notice_ the fact that they'd been snogging the face off of each other just moments ago.

She purses her lips and wonders what would happen if she grabbed his hand and dragged him back to the TARDIS so he could _not notice_ her doing more than just kissing him.

"You look lovely, Clara," the Doctor says, admiration written all over him.

She is _so_ dragging him back to that TARDIS.

"Um, thanks," she says, squirming slightly at the way he's looking at her, his green eyes boring into hers with something she can't quite place. "So do you."

But the Doctor chuckles and shakes his head. "Also, er, I'm sorry the cocktails took me by surprise. You know," he indicates with his head, "on the balcony."

She laughs a bit too brightly. "Oh, that," she says airily, "Well, I mean, what else are cocktails for if not to make you do things you'd ordinarily never, ever, in a million years do, right?"

His smile falters. "Right."

"That'll be something to put in the diary, that will," she says, a little too heartily.

And now he's frowning at her. "You didn't like it, then?" he says, and he's looking at her so expectantly she could cry.

_No, I didn't just like it_, she thinks. _Five more seconds out there and you'd have walked away with my heart in your pocket, next to the sonic, and your other toys._

"I…" she begins, but just then the waiter returns and sets down a plate containing what looks amazingly like two crisp spring rolls.

"Starter for sharing," he says pleasantly, then, with a slightly less pleased air, "and water for two."

"Thank you," the Doctor says, but his voice is all wrong, tight and hurt.

She wants to kiss that hurt sound away from him, ease it into nothingness by stroking her finger along his jaw.

"And please let me know should you need anything else." Their waiter bows, his orange hair falling over his pink forehead, and scurries off again.

Clara and the Doctor stare at one another, a moment that lasts an infinity.

"Fast service," she says hurriedly, flooding with relief that she has something to do with her mouth besides crawl right across the table and start kissing him again.

She quickly reaches out for one of the spring rolls and nibbles the end of it, watching the Doctor stare at her for a moment more, then sigh, and do the same.

The sensation of warm, pleasant vegetables hits her taste-buds, and she concentrates on the flavor, because it's certainly safer than thinking about how she'd rather have the Doctor exploring her tongue than a stupid spring roll.

She hums her approval, trying to get him talking about their meal, anything to get that disappointed expression off his face.

And in truth, the rolls are very good, even nicer than the favourite ones she gets at the take-away near her flat. She makes a mental note to bring some on the TARDIS the next time the Doctor picks her up, because if he likes these, then next time they won't have to risk snogging-inducing cocktails and she can just pop down the street to get….

_Took my breath away. _

Clara looks up, because she could have sworn it was the Doctor's voice she'd heard.

"What was that?"

"What was what?" he asks, his gaze lifting from his own plate.

She stares at him a moment, then shrugs. "Nothing, sorry."

_Wish we were still on the balcony._

"Alright, _what_?" she demands, putting down her fork.

"What what?" he asks, looking genuinely confused.

"You just said you wished we were still on the balcony."

He frowns. "No, I didn't."

"You did, I heard you."

"No, I _didn't_," he insists, looking a bit alarmed. "I thought it."

_You thought it? You mean I just read your *mind*? _Screams across her brain, and the Doctor's eyes widen.

"Apparently you did," he says, "And I just read yours."

They both look down at the spring rolls. And the Doctor whips out his sonic screwdriver to scan them, his face working with alarm.

Clara swallows weakly. "What were you saying about telepathic food?"

"A starter…" he sighs knowingly, as though it should have been obvious, "_for sharing_."

Their eyes meet and suddenly her brain is attacked by a bombardment of her own thoughts as well as his.

_Oh, god, the *last* thing I need is him knowing about taking him back to the TARDIS and…._

_...Get control of yourself, you come from a telepathic species, you're just out of practice…_

_….I mean, it's his fault because of all the kissing, and he doesn't need to know how much I *liked* the kissing and…._

_…. and she doesn't have to know you simply had to grab her on the balcony because after all the times you've secretly stared at the tight skirts she… shut up! Shut up! SHUT UP!_

She's got her eyes closed by now, and she cracks one lid open. The Doctor is doing the exact same thing, hands clutching the table in concentration, one eye peeping open at her.

"I'm going to do quantum physics in my head," he says quickly. "If you don't mind."

"I'll recite The Emperor's Handbook."

He smiles suddenly, his legendary blip of an attention span rearing once again. "Ah, Marcus Aurelius," he says approvingly. "I can take you to meet him sometime, if you like."

And before she can respond she hears in her head, clear as anything: _No, forget that, you like him too much already, I'll take you to meet Julius Caesar, I'll look devastatingly brilliant next to that prat_… and his face changes because he knows she can hear him, and he screws his eyes shut, his fingers poised against the sides of his temples.

The voice in her head changes to: _the problems with the non-relativistic time-independent Schrödinger equation are that the solution must not grow at infinity…_

Clara sighs. "Doctor."

…._so that it has either a finite L__2__-norm__if it is a bound state or a slowly diverging norm if it is part of a continuum… _

His eyes remain welded shut so she puts her hand over his, and this time, she doesn't just _hear_ his thoughts, she _feels_ them as well.

_So soft, she's always so soft, want to touch every inch of her…_

"Whoa," she breathes, yanking her hand away, but the flash of his feelings, his outright desire to want to touch her makes her blood rush to her head, so much she feels dizzy.

She and the Doctor both put a hand to their temples at the same time, shaking their heads.

She gawks at him. "Did you just get dizzy, too?"

"Erhm," he stalls, "this would normally be an occasion where I'd be happy to lie in order to look cool, but that would probably be pointless, given the situation."

He gives her a feeble laugh, and she sighs.

"Okay, maybe we should call the waiter over for an antidote to our appetizer, too, yeah?" she says. Because if she has to spend the evening listening to the doctor formulate physics equations in his head all night, it will hardly be the promising evening she had imagined.

"I know," he says, "I don't want to spoil our evening, either." _I really wanted this to be special._

She looks up at him. _You did?_

And she realizes that he heard the question, because even though he doesn't answer, he stares at her a long moment, his eyes soft. _Of course, I did, _comes his voice inside her head_. I wanted to celebrate with you. Because of today. Because of you. And…everything. I just wanted it to be special._.

She smiles. _But every day with you is special already._

The Doctor lets out a breath, and she watches a smile spread across his whole face. She wonders if he knows how young he looks when he smiles like that. His eyes always look so old, because she knows they've seen far too much. But not when he smiles. Only then, does he ever seem young to her.

_You make me feel young, Clara Oswald_, he tells her silently. _You already make me want to do cartwheels_.

She laughs out loud and pictures him whirling around the restaurant, leaping up on the table and doing a cartwheel off the edge of it.

He laughs, too. _Would you like me to try?_

And now she's giggling madly, picturing him landing in a huge heap on the floor, his hair sticking up from the effort.

_Oi! I wouldn't fall! _ He shouts at her mind, his brows furrowing with indignation, which only makes her laugh harder.

_I'd pick you up, even if you did_, she thinks automatically, because she would. Oh, she would, forever, if he'd let her.

The Doctor's face changes. _I know you would_, he thinks, and she can feel the tenderness, even in his thoughts. _You've done it already, a million times, haven't you?_ _My impossible girl_.

_My Doctor_, she replies, before she can stop herself.

And his fingers are drumming along the table's edge in front of him, as though he's suddenly not sure what to think.

_Maybe_… she hears him… _maybe we don't need an antidote_.

Clara looks down at her own hands, folded in her lap, unable to keep the smile from her face.

_You mean, you show me yours and I'll show you mine?_ she thinks. Gathering her courage, she meets his gaze, and is shocked to see the Doctor's eyes are no longer soft. They look… devilish. And hungry. Oh, there's definitely a dangerous man in there.

_Depends_, he answers her. _What parts are you going to show me?_

"Ah, I see we are enjoying our starter," the waiter announces, beside them once more, making them both jump with surprise.

The interruption of their thought-sharing, an experience far more intimate than even what they'd been doing on the balcony makes Clara blush straight to her toes. She looks up and sees the Doctor running a finger around his collar, as though letting heat out.

"Uh, yes," he says, his voice strange and gravelly, "thank you."

Clara pauses, realizing something. "Hold on," she says, jerking her chin at the waiter, "how would you know if we're enjoying it? We only took one bite each."

The waiter beams. "Well, you stopped talking," he says, as though it's obvious. "And couples who order the starter for sharing either stop talking to enjoy it or start throwing things at each other before running out the door to find a good lawyer," he finishes sagely.

Clara glances at the Doctor in disbelief, only to find him now grinning with delighted amusement.

"How did you know _we_ wouldn't run out screaming?" she asks the waiter, who gives her an airy wave, scoffing.

"I've been a waiter for 200 years. I have a sense about which couples will last."

She laughs. "But we're not…"

"Which reminds me," continues the waiter, "I forgot to bring your lemon tea," he says, setting down two china cups, filled with steaming brown liquid.

"We didn't order any tea," Clara says, confused.

"The tea comes with each course, mademoiselle," he explains. "In case the experience of your dish is a bit too intense for you."

The Doctor smiles. "A palate cleanser."

"Precisely, monsieur." The waiter nods. "It will immediately take you out of the experience of one course, so that you are ready for the next."

"Clever," Clara says, impressed.

"Thank you, mademoiselle, we aim to please." He claps his hands together. "So," continues their waiter, "what's to be next, eh? Lawyers or the fish course?"

Clara catches the Doctor's eyes. She can still hear him, softer now, though, as if his voice is muted, a whisper for her mind.

_Lovely Clara_, he thinks.

And they both nod and speak at the same time.

"Fish course."

* * *

to be continued in Chapter 4


	4. Fish Course, part 1

**A/N: Thank you so much to all for the lovely reviews- they really mean a lot and inspire me to keep writing! This one is a short chapter, but I'm doing my best to inch them closer with each update. Anyway, hope you enjoy it, and please let me know if you do. :-)**

* * *

FISH COURSE

* * *

The lemon tea is light and sweet, and as the Doctor sips, he feels Clara's voice in his head edging away, like mist evaporating in sunlight. He sees her frowning slightly, as she sips and then sets down her own cup.

"What's wrong?" he asks, instantly wanting to reach out for her hand, and instead lacing his fingers together to control himself.

"I'm a bit sorry that part's over," she says softly. "It was sort of nice hearing your voice in my head."

The Doctor rubs his hands over one another, because he's almost sure the effects of the cocktail have resurfaced, so much do his limbs itch to reach out to her. He tries to smile.

"Well, that's no problem, we can repeat the experience whenever you want." He waggles his fingers. "Telepathic Time Lord, remember?"

The edges of Clara's mouth tilt slightly. "Yes, but you only show me what you _want_ me to see. And I have no control over what _you_ see."

Control. If she only knew how _little_ control he had with her. He'd been like that from the first time he'd met her, or at least her Victorian echo, when his hand had taken on a mind of its own, waving up to her and promising, against his own will, that he'd be right up. And with Clara herself, it had only gotten worse, culminating in his constant touching of her. He thinks that if she knew how out of control _he_ actually was, she'd worry far less about having it herself.

Then again, it's almost comical that he's afraid of Clara seeing in his mind just how much he craves touching her nearly every moment he's with her, when she's already seen the very worst of him. She's seen him standing in front of the Moment, ready to destroy his own planet, his own people, and instead of looking at him like the monster he knows he is, she helped him find the better parts of himself so that he could save his world instead of burn it. She's already seen everything he is, in every lifetime. What could he ever have to hide from her?

To hell with reciting quantum physics, he thinks. He'll show her anything she wants. And before he can stop himself, he's leaning forward and taking her hand.

"What do you want to see, Clara?" he whispers.

"Your fish course, voila!" cries their waiter, and the Doctor's head drops in frustration. He's starting to harbor an intense dislike of the man thanks to his repeatedly abysmal timing.

But the spell is broken and Clara is already sitting back, blinking rapidly. The Doctor clears his throat and sighs as the waiter places, surprisingly, another two glasses of water in front of them.

"Er, didn't you already bring us water?" Clara asks, brows furrowed, but his own eyes notice the difference immediately.

"Yes, but that water was just water, mademoiselle," says the waiter, as though he expected Clara to know this. But Clara can't see the layers, the structure, and what's different about it, and what it can do…

The Doctor feels a smile inching across his face. "This is our fish course."

Clara's mouth is open a bit, and she looks down at the glass in front of her, then back at him like he's lost his mind. "It's _water_."

"It's not. Drink it."

And he thinks it's because he's smiling so broadly, and because Clara trusts him implicitly, that she looks once more at the glass in front of her.

"You're sure?" she asks timidly, one last try just to check.

He nods, anticipation coursing through him. "Oh, I'm sure."

Clara narrows her eyes at him. "Doctor, if I grow three heads, I am so coming after you," she tells him, downing her glass in one gulp.

"Oh, you won't grow any more heads," he says pleasantly, gulping down his own drink. "You're going to grow gills."

He actually watches the gasp of alarm die in her throat as he takes her by the hand and pulls her out of her chair, his grin nearly uncontrollable now. He glances at their waiter and points inquisitively in the direction of the balcony. The waiter nods and hands him a small covered vial, which the Doctor pockets in his trousers before sprinting towards the open balcony.

Oh, he'll show Clara everything. Everything she's ever wanted to see, and more.

* * *

She's almost sure she didn't hear him right. He did _not_ just say she was about to grow...

"What do you mean, '_gills_'?!" she yells, running behind him, as he pulls her by the hand through the restaurant.

"You know, fishy-things," he yells back, his voice full of excitement.

"You said the food was just telepathic!" she shrieks at him.

"Yes, well, apparently they've branched out a bit, haven't they!"

He's pulling her across the balcony, and she wants to tell him that she's had enough with the cocktails, thank you very much, but just then she notices that he's not stopping when they reach the edge, and he leaps right over it, pulling her over, as well.

That's when she screams.

It only lasts for a second because the moment she falls, sure she's going to her death over a bloody fish course, she realizes that the Doctor's arms are around her because she's no longer falling. He's caught her.

She looks around, trembling, as he sets her down. "Did we just _jump off a balcony_?"

"Yes," he says, clearly delighted. "Fun, wasn't it?"

"I have to think about that adjective."

"Think fast," he says excitedly. "We have to get in the water."

And that's when she realizes they're standing on a narrow beach, the balcony of the restaurant about twelve feet above them. But out in front of them, apart from stars and inky black sky, is an ocean.

Clara's mouth goes dry. "_Fish course_."

"Yes," the Doctor says, sounding as though he's about to giggle.

"As in _we're_ the fish."

"_Yes_," he exclaims, and this time he does giggle. "Well, not technically, of course. It just means we'll get to experience breathing underwater _like_ fish. In fact, I'm not entirely sure what all the side-effects will be." He examines her face. "Do you have a craving for eating seaweed, flies, anything like that?"

Clara eyes him levelly. "I have a craving to _not have gills_." She says, and lifts her shirt where, sure enough, small slits have formed, waiting to breathe the water that's waiting in front of them. She makes a face and points at them, jutting her chin out at the Doctor.

"Oh, Clara," he breathes, kneeling down, and touching the gills lightly, making her jump. Even on parts that don't belong on her, his touch sends shivers up her spine. "Those are _beautiful_."

She forces herself not to sigh, because it just figures that the Doctor would find something this completely bizarre to be attractive. Worse, she finds the image of seeing his long, knobbly fingers running over her skin, right across her stomach so he can touch the pair of the gills protruding from her sides, to be so erotic that she feels another blush creeping up her neck. She bites her lip, and forces her breathing to steady. And then the reality of what they're doing hits her, and she smiles.

"I can't believe you turned me into a fish."

He stands and smirks at her, touching the end of her nose with his finger. "_Not_ into a fish. More like a mermaid-Clara."

Her mouth quirks. "And what about you? Are you now merman-Doctor?"

He grins again, and steps back, taking off his jacket and lifting his shirt. "Can't let you have _all_ the fun."

She forces her eyes not to widen at the sight of his smooth, pale skin, and the muscles of his stomach as he shows off the set of gills now jutting from his body, as well. She looks up to see his eyes, green and dancing like an impish boy's, and it suddenly occurs to her that she's standing on another planet getting aroused by looking at an alien with gills sticking out on either side of his braces.

She laughs and the Doctor's face falls.

"What? Mine are just as nice as yours," he says defensively, looking at his sides.

Clara rolls her eyes and kisses his cheek quickly. "And you call _me_ impossible," she says, laughing again, and then stepping back to take off her top.

The Doctor's eyes are no longer dancing.

"Wha- what are you doing?"

She drops her shirt to the ground, standing in her bra, skirt and tights. "Well, if I'm going to be _breathing_ through these things, I don't want them covered up, now do I!" She says brightly, and turns around to run towards the water.

But not before she catches the look on the Doctor's face. She hugs herself a bit because the moment he'd seen her, nearly naked, his first expression had been dumb-struck. But it had only lasted for a fraction of an instant, and she knew very well the look that had immediately replaced it.

It was a look that said very clearly: _Mine_.

She can hear him shedding his shirt and tie behind her, and as her foot hits the first waves crashing to the beach, she realizes something else that envelops her just as much as the water:

She's _already_ his.

* * *

to be continued

* * *

**A/N 2: Just as a note of interest, I originally had something else planned for this course, but then I remembered once reading that the quickest way to get your romantic leads to get more, erhm, _physical_, was to either get them drunk or get them wet. Since this restaurant's cocktails don't make you drunk, I really had no choice but to shove them in the ocean. Right? ;-) **


	5. Fish Course, part 2

**A/N: First, LOADS of thanks for all who are so kindly leaving reviews- they really make my day, so thank you, thank you!**

**Second, my apologies for the delay in update, but this story decided to take an unexpected turn into, well, less fluffy territory. I initially wrote this to be fun and happy, but darn it, I must have written FOUR different versions of this chapter and they all ended up the same way. So I have to assume this is just where the characters wanted to go, and if you're all impatient at the end of this chapter, take it up with them, because they, apparently, are in charge. :-)**

**Once again, many thanks for the reviews, favorites, and follows! You guys are awesome!**

* * *

FISH COURSE, Part 2

* * *

The water is surprisingly warm, and in no time at all, Clara is submerged up to her torso. She hears the Doctor right behind her and when she turns to check on him, she fights down the urge to laugh.

His chest is bare, but he's still wearing his braces.

"Why didn't you leave the bow-tie on, as well?" she says, smirking at him.

"They're holding up my trousers!"

Clara sighs as he reaches her, the water only up to his waist as he looms nearly a foot over her. She sometimes forgets how much taller he is, and, though she'd rather die than ever admit it to him, how small and feminine she feels when the Doctor is standing this close to her. She secretly loves the way his shoulders are at her eye-level, the perfect spot to bury her head when he hugs her, and how, when she pulls back, she always has to look up at him just to meet his gaze.

And something about being this close seems to change something in his expression, as though he's just noticed that all her newly-exposed skin now is only millimeters away from his. His eyes are delving into hers, and she wonders if he feels it, too, that sudden, heightened sense of male and female, because she's standing in her bra and he's bare-chested, and she has to curl her fingers into fists, because if she doesn't, she's going to run her hands all over him.

"Are you scared?" he asks, his voice low, and Clara's eyes widen. Good lord, is she really that transparent?

"A little," she confesses, because it's the truth.

"We'll go slowly," he promises, and her heart is pounding because she has no idea what he's talking about, but as his hands slide around her hips, she knows that whatever it is, she's all for it. "Okay, close your mouth and hold your breath," he instructs her.

"Um, what?"

"Hold your breath _above_ the water, so you can try breathing through the gills _under_ the water," he says.

_Oh, right_, she thinks. _Because I have gills. Because this madman turned me into a fish. And instead of appreciating that I'm standing here half-naked, he's turning this into a science experiement, and I never…ever.. LEARN!_

"Come on," the Doctor urges, "we need to learn how to do this if we're going to go underwater."

Clara mentally counts to five and lets out a sigh. "Alright."

He frowns slightly. "What's wrong? Do you not like this? We can go back to the restaurant."

She peers into his eyes, and sighs again. He really is trying so hard to make this special for her. It's not his fault that he has the attention span of a ten year old and finds just about everything fascinating, including growing gills so they can breathe underwater. It's also not his fault that so often when she looks at him she longs to stroke his face, or that she's committed the exact color of his eyes to memory. It's certainly not his fault that being half-naked in the water with him is making her invent something between them that probably isn't there.

Her eyes soften. "I'm sorry. I _do_ like this." _I love it, more than I should, and that's the whole problem_. "It's just…. unexpected," she says, trying to laugh it off.

He's studying her face, and she knows exactly what he's doing, and it melts her heart. He's trying to figure out what to do to make her happy.

"I do like it," she tells him again, wrapping one hand around his upper arm. She closes her eyes briefly at the touch of his warm skin under her fingers, the taut muscle that makes her heart speed up. When she opens her eyes again, he's still studying her, so she smiles. "I mean, how many people get to swim underwater and breathe through their own gills?"

"Well, lots, actually, there are several species of humanoids that live underwater," he says, in full Doctor mode once more, as he lists them on his fingers, "there's the Meron, the…"

"Doctor," she laughs, "just get your gills in the water." She laughs harder. "And there's a sentence I never thought I'd say."

He's smiling, too, and he must be bending his knees because he sinks down so that they're face-to-face, dropping his sides below the surface of the water.

"On three?" he asks, and she nods, still smiling. "One, two….three!"

They both suck in a breath and Clara even holds her nose with her fingers, just so that she won't cheat. She pushes the air down into her abdomen and instantly her eyes widen in surprise when her gills open up, water flowing cleanly over them, and she feels oxygen in her lungs, as easily as if she was breathing air. She sees the Doctor's mouth drop open in delight, as he feels the same reaction. His grin is infectious, and she bites down a laugh so she won't disrupt the flow of oxygen at her sides.

His eyes catch hers and she nods. She reaches for his hand at the same time he reaches for hers, and before she knows it, she's grinning with him, her teeth flashing white in the moonlight, before they dip under the surface, exploring yet another world.

* * *

When they'd first gone under the water, the Doctor was afraid his gills weren't working properly. Submerged beneath the waves, he'd turned to make sure Clara was alright, and all the oxygen seemed to leave him. She'd been illuminated by the moonlight shafting down through the water's surface, her dark hair moving like a cloud around her beautiful face, her nearly-naked body almost glowing, and she'd smiled at him just before pushing off from the bottom, and propelling herself a few feet away. With a thrill of excitement, he'd chased after her, grabbing at her ankles and missing as she sped away.

They'd swum beneath the waves for what felt like hours, dodging schools of fish flashing silver with every flutter of light that hit them, feeling the water sluice over their limbs like a caress. Several times, the Doctor had thought it was Clara's touch that he felt, stroking across his back or shoulder, only to turn and realize she was already far away from him, moving like the graceful, unattainable creature she'd always been, an underwater opera of the years he'd been compelled to pursue her through time and space, wondering if he'd ever find her again..

And so he'd simply followed wherever she went, hoping she was pleased, wishing she'd stay close enough so that he could touch her now and then. And wondering how it was possible that she always, always took his breath away.

Now he glances over at her, seeing her floating on her back, as he is, looking up at the stars. His breath still hitches at the sight of her, flesh just inches from his, and she's never seemed more out of his reach.

"This really is lovely," he hears her say, her voice full of contentment, and the sound of it makes him smile, even as he stares at the stars himself. "I used to love looking at the stars when I was a girl." She laughs lightly. "Never thought I'd be swimming on one, though."

"Do you want to know their names?" he asks, because anything that he can do to impress Clara is a good thing.

"What? All of them?"

"Well, no, just the ones I've been to," he tells her, scanning the sky. He lifts one hand to point to a star to Clara's left. "See that one far off in the distance? That's Parakon. I visited there once with Sarah Jane, well, I say visited, but really, they kidnapped her and I had to go rescue…"

"And Gallifrey," she says, interrupting him suddenly. "it's up there, too, isn't it? Even if we can't see it."

The Doctor frowns a bit, wondering why she suddenly changed the subject. But he nods, looking up at the star-strewn sky, because she's right. Somewhere, his home is still among the stars, even tucked away in its own universe. Because Clara had stopped him, and made him- _all_ of him- the Doctor once more.

"We'll find it one day," he promises her.

She pauses. "Will we?"

He looks over at her, his brows furrowed. "Do you think I won't?"

Clara's eyes meet his. "Of course, _you_ will," she says, smiling at him, then sighing. "It's me being with you that's the question."

And something about the way she says it makes his hearts dance nervously in his chest, a ribbon of fear curling its way through his veins. "Why is that a question?" he asks, keeping his voice even. "Where else would you be?"

She swirls the water around her body, still floating beside him, and is silent for a long time. The silence scares him even more.

"Doctor," she says finally, and he's never paid closer attention to her words than he does right now. "Why do you always seem to pick young women as your travel companions?"

His brows furrow again, because he has no idea how they got on this subject at all and what in the hell does this have to do with Clara talking about a time when she might not be with him? And besides that, anyone who's known him for more than an hour surely knows this. "I would have thought it was obvious," he tells her.

"I guess I'm hoping the reason _isn't_ the obvious one."

He looks over at her again, and sees that her face is firmly set, looking up at the sky. "What, that traveling with me can be dangerous?" he asks.

Her face turns, and he sees confusion on it. "And now you've lost me."

"I mean _that's_ the reason: it's dangerous. Surely you've noticed there's often a bit of running involved," he tells her, then rolls his eyes. "I mean, except when there's swimming involved."

Clara smiles at him, but it's a cautious smile, one that doesn't reach her eyes. "I might have picked up on that once or twice."

"Well, I couldn't ask someone who's too old to run from danger to travel with me. It would be suicide for them," he says, still not sure why she hadn't known this. "They _have_ to be young for their own safety."

"But _you_ were old when you started traveling in the TARDIS!"

The Doctor scoffs. "Yes, but I'm me."

"He says modestly," she replies, and the Doctor can hear her eyes rolling.

He sighs with exasperation. "A Time Lord doesn't need to be fit, except in here," he says, tapping his head. "We're not nearly as fragile as you are, and _we_ can regenerate. Companions can't."

Clara is still swishing the water around in contemplation, but to the Doctor's ears, it's the sound of him losing her, the way she might trickle away from him, like water through his fingers.

"Alright, I get the young part, then," she says finally. "But… why always women? Men would be even stronger and faster, if that's the big requirement. They'd need less saving _and_ you wouldn't have to ever worry about getting, you know, more attached than you intended. Why not travel with men instead?"

He sighs, because this answer probably _wasn't_ an obvious one. He's always known why, but it's never been something on which he likes to dwell. "Well, _that_… that's for the safety of everyone else."

"Okay, now you've _really_ lost me."

The Doctor breathes deeply for another moment, because Clara doesn't realize what she's forcing him to admit about himself, out loud, and not just in the deepest parts of his psyche. Finally, he tells her, "I have sometimes traveled with male companions, but… they're too much like me. They invite conflict, the way most men do, the way I do….. females, on the other hand, have the very necessary quality I often lack."

He looks over at her, and sees her frowning in confusion.

"Estrogen?" she asks. He meets her gaze levelly.

"Compassion."

Her eyes widen, and then, after what seems like an eternity, they soften. "Oh."

"Clara, you know probably better than anyone else how much war I've seen, and how much war I've _caused_. Look at what happened today. I stayed my hand because of _you_, because your compassion made me stop long enough to think of a better way. A man would have let me hit that button without thinking twice." His gaze drifts, and the images of the carnage he's both caused and nearly caused flashes through his mind like a sped-up film. He thinks of the horror he's unleashed on his enemies, the uncontrollable fury when he's barely been able to stop himself, even when he's already broken them.

He looks up at the stars and knows that for all the ones that are there because of him, there are so many more that have perished due to his vengeance. He tells Clara, because it's entirely the truth, "There have been too many times when I've feared what I'm capable of. Female companions help me see through kinder eyes than I have on my own. They make me less dangerous to everyone else."

He squeezes his eyes tight at the admission, afraid to look at her. When he finally does, she's staring at him with the very compassion that's so elusive to him. Clara's eyes are soft, full of understanding, and it washes over him like warm waves rolling over his body.

"That's very logical," she says.

He tries to smile."Well, _that's_ a quality I have in abundance."

But no sooner does he look back at the stars than he hears her shift in the water, and realizes that she's no longer floating, but swimming away. The Doctor glances up and sees she's heading back to shore.

"Clara?" he calls, swimming after her. With his longer body, he reaches her quickly, his hand reaching out for her shoulder. "Did I say something wrong?" But when he turns her towards him, he's alarmed to see tears in her eyes. "Clara!" he says, pulling her to him. "What is it?"

"It's nothing," she says, shaking her head, "I'm just being an idiot." She pushes away from him, the touch of her hand against his bare chest electrifying him even as he's filled with concern over what he could be doing wrong. The minute she lets go of him, though, his eyes widen, watching her head sink under the surface because her feet don't touch the bottom.

"Clara!" he yells her name a third time, lifting her back up, grasping her under her arms and wrapping them around his shoulders. She sputters a bit, coughing the water out of her lungs, and he sighs, leaning his forehead against hers. "Water goes in the _gills_, not the mouth," he says shakily.

"Yeah," she agrees, clinging to him, "learning that the hard way."

He lets out another breath, pressing a kiss to her temple, unable to help himself. She _always_ manages to forget that she's breakable, a fragile human thing, and he knows she probably forgets it because her spirit is so huge.

"Sorry," she whispers, and he clings back, scared to let go.

"Why did you swim away?" he asks. She shakes her head again, her body trembling against his, and he holds her tighter, which only seems to make her tremble more. "What am I doing wrong?" he pleads.

"It's not you," she says into his chest. "Well, it is you, but it's not your fault. It's just… hearing you talk about Sarah Jane, it just reminded me that…" she stops and holds him closer. He's never felt so powerless.

"Clara, tell me, _please_."

"It just reminded me of what's coming. What always comes for your companions eventually."

And there it is. The water turns cold all around him, even while Clara's lovely, warm body is pressed against his. He can pretend to misunderstand her, to ask what she means, but he knows, oh, he knows.

She means the goodbye. The one that always comes. It comes unwillingly nearly every time, when he either leaves them behind, or they walk out the door, or they're pulled from his side by fate, but the end is always the same: they are left behind and the Doctor moves on. Only if they're very lucky, do they even get a good-bye from him. Because that's what he does- secrets, lies, and no goodbyes.

But as he holds her, shivering in his arms, the Doctor knows something else.

He has absolutely no intention of giving up Clara Oswald. Not ever.

It's why, he thinks, he's always so desperate to please her, even why he took her here tonight. He wanted this evening to be magical and wonderful for her, because if it is, then maybe she'll see _him_ as wonderful, too. And then, maybe, if _he's_ very, very lucky, she'll never leave him.

"Listen to me," he says, his voice caressing the words, even as his hand reaches up to caress her face, pushing the dark hair out of her eyes. "I'm not going anywhere unless you go with me."

She's searching his face, trying to find truth there, and he fights the urge to lean down and kiss her again, to show her how much he means it. But she shakes her head, looking away.

"You meant that with all of them, too," she says, her voice so full of hurt that his hearts twist in his chest. "In the end, I'll just be one more number in a very long line of young women that followed you into that stupid snog box."

His jaw slackens. How can she even think she's nothing more than a blip on the radar of his life, when she's been part of it since the very beginning? And even if she hadn't been, she'd have still been something so unique, so lovely that he can barely find words to describe her. How does he explain that from the moment he'd met her, he'd been out of control, foolishly, ridiculously mesmerized by her, and yet so happy when he was with her that he didn't even care how foolish he looked. Even when he was damn well old enough to know better, she'd stripped away every trace of his dignity with a flash of dark eyes, made him always eager to know more about her, what she liked, how she thought, what would make her smile, because her smiling would instantly make _him_ smile.

Even before what happened today at the museum, even before jumping into his time stream, Clara had done the impossible: she'd made him, an ancient, wounded, snarling soul, feel joy again. How can she even _think_ she's nothing?

And their faces flash across his mind: Jo, Sarah Jane, Ace, Rose, Martha, Donna, Amy and Rory, River Song…. all loved in different ways, all wanting to be the one that lasted forever. And all gone. The hurt of remembering them, of knowing that some of them faced their deaths because of him, must show on his face because immediately, her eyes soften, and she's shaking her head again.

"I'm sorry, Doctor," she whispers. "I know it's not your fault. I do. I know that you didn't _want_ to say goodbye to any of them. I'm sorry I said that."

He's struggling to keep his breathing even, but the memories wrack him. She knows him so well, but even she can't know the pain of remembering.

"Clara."

"What?"

"Don't you think I want forever, too?"

She pauses for the longest of moments, and he hears her sniffling. "I don't know. Sometimes I just don't know what you want."

_I want the pain of losing everyone to go away, _he thinks._ I want to keep you for myself for the rest of my days because I'm on my last life and I can't imagine spending any of it without you. I want my tired, old soul to feel everything that this young body I'm stuck in wants to feel with you. _

And he doesn't know what else to do to prove to her what he feels, how much losing her would crush the spirit out of him, so he takes her face in his hands, his fingers slipping into her hair.

"Then let me show you," he says, and leans down, claiming her lips with his own.

_I want you, Clara Oswald, by my side, always._

Heaven waits for him again inside Clara's mouth, and almost instantly he hears her moan softly against him, sending tremors up his spine and blood rushing to his groin. His fingers quickly slide down her shoulders to grasp her waist, pulling her closer.

"Stay with me, Clara," he whispers, somewhere between an order and a plea. "That's all I want," he says, before his tongue searches for hers once more, unable to get enough of her. And before he knows it, her legs have lifted to wrap around his waist, and the Doctor sucks in a sharp breath. The pressure against his body, hard and yearning for hers, is almost unbearable, with her wet arms and breasts sliding against his bare chest.

_This_ is what he'd been waiting for and hadn't even known it. All the touches, the glances, the finding any excuse to hold her, it had all been about this- holding this human woman in his arms and letting himself feel what he's spent centuries being afraid of feeling. Love, lust, desire and all that comes with it. Wanting her so much that his vision clouds, giving her power over him, willing to do anything for her. It was always going to be about this with Clara, and he's spent too long fooling himself thinking otherwise.

So he gives in, and as soon as he does, a groan of relief escapes him, and all he can feel is bliss. His hands are exploring the contours of her back, tracing over the elastic of her bra, and of all the evil devices ever constructed in the universe, he thinks that none is so frustrating as the clasp on her bra at this moment. Clara shifts slightly in his arms, sending new friction against him, and he gasps, involuntarily pressing her downwards and grinding into her, making _her_ gasp as the water sloshes around them.

He doesn't just want her, he knows. He wants _all _of her, now, this second. He wants Clara all around him, her small body moving against his, where he can consume her, her moans, her delicious gasps, the sound of her voice and the color of her hair, her kindness, her goodness, the dimple on the side of her cheek, and the more he thinks of her the more even his thoughts become incoherent babbling.

_Yours, Clara, I'm yours, just see it…._

His lips trail in hot bursts along her neck and jaw, claiming her, wishing he could mark her forever as his alone. But Clara is pushing back at him, her eyes slightly bleary.

"Doctor," she says, catching her breath, and he frowns. Her mouth should not be talking. It should be doing things with _his_ mouth. She drops her head to his neck, shaking it slightly. "We have to stop," she whispers.

His breath is coming in ragged pants, and he literally has trouble focusing his senses, which seem to be focused entirely on the spot where the heat of her is pressing against him. "What?" he breathes out, still clutching her tightly.

"I want to think," she tells him, then lifts her eyes to his. "And I can't really think with you doing… that."

He blinks at her. "What do you want to think about? Can I help? Will that make it go faster?"

She smiles, still breathless. "It's not a math equation, Doctor."

He searches her face, because suddenly, the very real possibility of what this might be starts to form in his brain, like a horrible seed about to take root.

"Oh," he says, his voice raw, fingers loosening on her hips. "But I thought…." He stops, and swallows, feeling the lump stuck in his throat. "You don't want _me_."

Her eyes flash, and for a moment he thinks she's going to protest, to tell him that _of course_ she wants him, because it seems to be written all over her face. It was certainly written all over the way she'd been responding to him just moments ago, her tongue dancing eagerly with his, her fingers clutching into the muscles of his shoulders as she clung to him. But he can see her brain working feverishly behind the irises, and when she speaks, she's struggling.

"I want.." she says, as though searching for the right words. "I want… to not be hurt."

The Doctor exhales slowly, brushing his thumb across her cheek. "I wouldn't hurt you, Clara." Because he wouldn't. She's so utterly precious to him that he'd give up this last life to save hers, without pausing to even think about it. "I'd protect you forever."

But she's smiling that sad, awful smile again. "A Time Lord's forever isn't the same as mine, though, is it."

He stares at her, his arms falling numbly to his sides, and Clara slides from the perch of his hips, her eyes never leaving his.

"Don't you think I've known from the beginning what the trick is to making this work?" she says, and he gapes at her, helplessly. "It's never letting this happen," she says, placing a tiny hand over one of his hearts.

The Doctor is struggling, too, trying to control his breathing, and his body is still humming, hard and needy in the water. He tries one last, desperate time. "Is that what you want?"

She shakes her head again, her eyes huge and full of something he can't place. "I'm so sorry," she tells him softly, crossing an arm over her bra with as though she's suddenly cold, or unwilling to be so exposed to him, while she treads water with the other..

His brain is dumb with shock at her words, trying to stop that feeling of falling, that horrible sickening sensation when your stomach drops and your adrenaline shoots through every nerve ending.

_You're losing her. You're losing Clara. Fool. Fool!_

She pushes back from him, and once again, Clara is out of his reach, as perhaps she always was. Her gaze drops, and she stares at the water in front of her. "Can we go back to the restaurant now?" she asks quietly.

"Of course," the Doctor replies mutely, although he's unable to move.

It's only when she sighs and begins swimming away that he realizes her feet still can't reach the bottom. Automatically, he reaches for her. "You don't have to swim, I've got you," he says, pulling her back into his arms. But this time, he wraps one arm under her knees, and the other around his shoulders, carrying her like he would a child, back to the shore.

He bites down a bitter laugh at the irony, because that's what she is compared to him.

The only sound is the gentle splashing of water as the Doctor moves through the waves, his legs like lead, because each step brings him further from the spot where she was melting into his arms, his kiss, and he shuts his eyes at the memory. He has to look forward, where his steps are taking him back to a reality where Clara doesn't want his embraces, his kiss, his love. Clara doesn't want him.

As he carries her back to the beach, he feels as though the stars above have witnessed his humiliation, the sad, old man who dared to think he could be the love of this beautiful young girl, however ardently his foolish heart made him believe it was possible. They've seen everything he's done, and thought, and felt tonight.

And how they must be laughing.

* * *

To be continued…


	6. Mains, part 1

**A/N: Once again, thank you all so much for the reviews! **

**They make me whirly like the Doctor on a sugar rush. :-)  
**

* * *

MAINS

* * *

They sit silently back at the table, and Clara wishes that they had the telepathic spring rolls back, just so that she could hear his voice, even if it's just inside her head.

They'd reached the beach in silence, too, where the Doctor had wordlessly handed her a vial from the pockets of his trousers, making her dimly remember that the waiter had handed it to him, just before they'd run off towards the water. She'd put the vial to her lips and tasted the lukewarm lemon tea, feeling her gills evaporate from her sides.

More surprisingly, the water had evaporated from her body in a whirlwind of warm air, leaving her dry from head to toe. By the time she'd realized she was no longer dripping wet, she'd turned around, expecting to see the Doctor laughing at the fascinating way the tea had worked to dry them, only to see him standing beside her, holding out her clothes, his eyes expressionless.

It was then that she'd thought of just throwing the clothes back on the sand, grabbing his hand and running back into the water with him, where she could kiss the absolute face off of him.

But she hadn't. She'd taken her clothing and dressed, trying not to watch as he slid his own clothes back on, then followed him back to the restaurant, hearing only the sound of his feet and hers padding up the narrow staircase that led back to the balcony.

Now she sits across from him, watching the Doctor fiddling with his cutlery, while she looks around aimlessly, as though every single thing in the restaurant is too interesting for her to keep still and meet his eyes. For once, she wishes their waiter would appear, anything to break the awful silence.

And, as though the waiter is as telepathic as the food, he's suddenly there, beaming at them. "Back on land again!" he says cheerfully. "How did you enjoy your fish course?"

Clara looks down at the table, where she can see the Doctor's fingers drumming steadily, the way he does when he's somewhere between contemplative and highly displeased. Somehow, though, she knows the anger isn't directed at her, and that might even make it worse.

"Very illuminating," the Doctor says evenly, and she closes her eyes.

The waiter deflates a bit. "Ah." Clara glances up to see his golden eyes darting between them, trying to determine something. "Well, not to worry, we have much more on the menu that you may enjoy. And you can always have another…"

"_Please_ don't suggest a cocktail," Clara begs him, but sees the Doctor wince. She meets his eyes and sees fleeting hurt and rejection, making her shake her head almost imperceptibly, pleading with him to understand. But then he sits back again with a sigh, and the mask returns.

"It doesn't matter what I want," he says resignedly. "Whatever the lady orders is fine with me."

She looks back at the waiter helplessly, expecting to see his eyes wide with the awkwardness of his guests, but she's surprised to find him smiling, a slow, knowing smile. "I have just the thing," he tells them. "It's our best main course, the House Special."

Clara eyes him warily. "What does it do?"

But the waiter shakes his finger at her. "Ah, mademoiselle. It's different for everyone who tries it, but let's just say…" he leans down, smiling broadly, "…it is designed to make dreams come true."

"If you have any left," the Doctor mutters, and Clara's heart breaks a little more.

"Oh, you'd be surprised, monsieur," the waiter says assuredly, waving at him. "So yes? Two House Specials for two special guests?"

She nods slowly and sees the Doctor give a short jerk of his head.

"Excellent!" replies the waiter approvingly. "I think you'll find it the most surprising thing you've ever tasted." He nods again and disappears into the crowd of moving wait staff.

Clara's eyes close for a moment, because the Doctor is sitting like a statue and she knows she's hurt him so deeply that he can barely stand to be at the same table with her. But he doesn't understand what's at stake for her.

It's taken everything she has not to fall over the edge with him, not just tonight, but for months, almost since the moment she met him. She's already his right now, in this moment, but somehow she's managed to hold on to one tiny, filament-thin sliver of herself that would surrender _all_ of herself to him forever.

And forever is exactly what she'll never have from him. He _can't_ give it to her, no matter how much he says he wants it. Just by the very nature of his Time Lord existence, she knows that one day, when she's dust in the ground, her Doctor will still be traveling with more companions, young for their speed and female for their compassion, and many, if not most, will love him just like his previous ones have done. As Clara does, hopelessly, greedily, wanting him all to herself.

Worse, because he's the Doctor, and despite all his best intentions, he's also still a man who feels and needs and gets lonely, he'll eventually love some of them, too. She knows the day is coming when he'll hold some future companion in his arms, press his mouth against hers, and he'll do so with the hearts of Sarah Jane, Rose Tyler, Martha Jones, River Song, and Clara herself all dangling from his belt. And that image nearly breaks her in two.

She closes her eyes tightly again. He told her, back when he'd pulled her out of his time stream, that he wanted to save her as she's saved him. So why can't he understand that she's pushing him away because it's the only way _she can save herself_?

She feels a tear slide down her cheek, even with her eyes squeezed shut, and the moment she does, she hears him exhale, then feels his warm hand slide over hers.

"Clara," he says softly, and she opens her eyes to see him gazing at her, his face wretched and miserable. "I'm sorry. I'm being monstrous, and I'm so sorry." He's taken both of her hands in his, holding them across the table. "Here I promised you a perfect evening, and all I'm doing is making a mess of things."

She shakes her head. "You're not. It's my fault. I shouldn't…" she pauses, swallowing, "I shouldn't have let things go that far. I should know better."

The Doctor smiles at that, still rubbing circles on her hands. "I'm supposed to be the wise old man. So if anyone should know better, it's me, isn't it?"

The corners of her mouth tilt up. "No one who collects as many hats as you do can be called wise."

He feigns indignation. "That's _very_ wise," he insists, still smiling at her. "It means I'm always prepared." He squeezes her hand, then lifts it to his lips. "Well, for most things, anyway."

"I'm sorry," she whispers.

"And I just want you to be happy, my Clara."

And her eyes close again because she _is _so very, very happy when she's with him. It's all she can do to make it to every Wednesday when she knows the Doctor will be with her again, when she can feel that giddy joy that comes from seeing his face pop out of the TARDIS, his hand outstretched for hers, waiting to take her on some new adventure. She's never happier than when she's with him, and never more broken when she knows it won't last.

"Then let's do what we came to do, yeah?" she asks him gently. "Let's celebrate everything that happened today, and let's just… be happy. Can't we just be happy tonight?"

His eyes search hers for a fraction too long, but finally he nods. "'Course we can," he says, smiling a little too brightly, letting go of her hand. "Life's too short for sulky. Tonight, I'll be jolly Doctor just for you." He picks up his cutlery and makes it dance across the table.

Clara laughs, then bites her bottom lip. He's still trying so hard to make her smile, to make the evening a special one. She suddenly thinks of the dish they've just ordered, and grabs at the topic for conversation, desperate to bring things back to normal.

"What do you think the House Special will end up being?" she asks casually.

The Doctor frowns, scratching his chin with his fork, "Do you know, I rather hope it's not fish fingers. The experience of having gills may have put me off of them for a while."

She laughs again and this time he smiles, because he's trying, too. Except she knows him too well. He's still only glancing at her tentatively, and there's a strange sort of hurt that's still tucked in the very corner of his mouth, and she knows she is the biggest fool in the entire universe for telling this man to walk away from her. How is she ever going to be strong enough to make them both keep their distance, when every gesture of his makes her yearn for him all the more?

She raises her eyebrows at him, trying desperately to capture the jokey camaraderie that's so often between them. "Maybe mine will be a souffle?"

The Doctor groans. "One day, I'm going to show you how to actually prepare one of those properly."

"I _do_ make them properly!" she cries, still smiling at him.

"Yeah, you properly _burn_ them," he counters. "I mean, really what've souffles ever done to you, eh, that you perpetuate this constant slaughter of them? They must call _you_ the Oncoming Storm."

She throws her napkin at him, just as their waiter reappears. "The House Special for monsieur and mademoiselle!" he says cheerfully, placing down two plates, each covered with a silver lid. "Don't want them to get cold," the waiter laughs, smiling, and lifting both lids off with a dramatic flourish.

Clara and the Doctor blink at their plates.

"Now," says the waiter, gesturing at the plates, "this is the most complex dish that we serve. So make sure you take it slowly, to get its full flavor, yes?"

Clara gapes at him. "It's an egg," she says, pointing at the single boiled egg, sitting primly in its silver cup on her plate. She looks up and sees the Doctor, who is suddenly grinning down at his own egg.

"That," he says, "is bloody brilliant." She points to her plate.

"But it's an egg."

"Of course, it's an egg," says the waiter. "Where do you think everything comes from?"

"Ha!" the Doctor laughs, and clasps his hands, clearly delighted. His eyes meet hers and he says rapidly, "What perfect simplicity!" he cries. "You know, I never would have thought of it, and I actually trained to be a chef once!"

Clara closes her eyes and then says. "But. It's. An. Egg."

The Doctor beams at her. "Yes, but, Clara, _an egg_ is exactly how everything starts. Everything in existence, every piece of music, every brush of paint, every thought, _every dream _comes from something that, at, one time or another, was just a humble egg," he nearly chortles, holding his hands out on either side of the egg on his plate, as though it were the Holy Grail itself. "_This_ is where creation begins."

"I do hope you enjoy it," says the waiter, smiling at them, "I told the chef to make sure it would be a combination for the two of you to enjoy together."

"Well, I hope it doesn't taste like fish fingers _and _souffles mixed together."

The waiter quirks an eyebrow at them. "I very much doubt it, mademoiselle. Do enjoy," he says, and glides away.

The Doctor nearly squirms in his seat with anticipation, and Clara frowns. "So, we just tap it on the top and dig in? Won't that break of all of creation or something?"

He waves at her, scoffing. "No, it's fine. You can't make an omelet, or in this case, a dream come true, without a breaking an egg." He picks up his spoon and cracks his egg cleanly, slicing off the top. "Just the way I like them, too," he says eagerly.

Clara winces, then shrugs. She's never really been fond of boiled eggs, but then, if they're supposed to taste like a dream come true, then perhaps hers will taste like her favorite foods- like Double Deckers or chili prawns or hot, soothing tea on a cold, wet afternoon. Or her mother's souffle.

She cracks open her own egg, and dips her spoon into its contents. Taking a deep breath, she looks up to see the Doctor wrap his lips around his own spoon. She only has a moment to dwell on the memory of his lips pressed against hers, when he'd held her in the water like some romantic hero from her dreams, and how much she wishes she had that moment back, when she closes her mouth around the egg and immediately feels the entire world dissolve into nothingness.

* * *

There's light, somewhere. Or everywhere. She's not sure.

The moment everything begins to come into focus, Clara realizes the light is coming from all around her. They're no longer in the dimly lit restaurant. They're standing on a busy city street, except in place of zooming motor-cars, she's staring directly at horses and carriages, men in tall hats and women carrying parasols.

She glances down at her own body and sees she, too, is clad in a long dress, a little cape around her shoulders. She reaches up to feel a straw hat on her head. She looks across at the Doctor, who's dressed in a way that's painfully familiar- long coat, cravat, and top hat. He's even got a cane hanging from one arm, as the other is holding Clara. He's positively beaming.

"Bath!" he exclaims, and Clara frowns in confusion.

"You want a bath? We just got out of the ocean!"

"No," he says, licking the air. "That's where we are. The city of Bath. And it tastes like…." He smacks his lips. "1796."

Clara's eyebrows raise. "You mean we left the restaurant?"

The Doctor smiles. "Looks that way, doesn't it?"

"And would this be more of that 'branching out' you were talking about earlier?" she sighs, and he claps his hands.

"Thrilling, isn't it?" he chirps. "I might not write that strongly-worded letter, after all!"

Clara sighs again and peers around. "Well, the year explains the clothes, anyway. But what are we doing in Bath?"

He shrugs. "I dunno, do I, it's your fantasy."

Her hands immediately fly to her hips. "It's supposed to be a combination of _both_ of us. It could just be that you have a thing for hats, you know."

The Doctor smiles dreamily. "I do love a good hat," he says, pulling away from her to admire his reflection in a nearby window. It's then that she sees his brows furrow. "Well, this is new," he says.

"What? What's new?"

"I don't think we're really here," he tells her, and Clara frowns, not understanding. "I mean," he says, rolling his eyes, "obviously our consciousness is here, but I don't think our bodies are. I think we're here transcendentally!"

"Transcenwhat-ily?"

He's smiling and animated now. "It's not a dream, it's telepathic. You know, like an out-of-body experience. Our consciousness placed in the minds of people who were actually here in the City of Bath in 1796!" He's practically whirling now.

"Wait, you mean this is real, as in really real?"

"I think so, yes." He takes her by the hand and positions her in front of the window beside him. Clara's mouth drops. Rather than her own reflection and the Doctor's, she sees another couple standing in their clothes. They still look the same age, but Clara's hair is considerably longer, black as midnight, the same color as her eyes. The Doctor, still tall and lean in the body beside her is nearly dancing with excitement.

"Look at me! _I'm ginger_!" he cries with delight, fondling the strawberry blonde hair that's curling out from under his hat. "And it only took 1200 years!"

Damn him, even in another body, he's still handsome, she thinks. She pulls his arm so he can face her, because, without the reflection, she still only sees him as the Doctor. She glances again at the tall, ginger-haired man in the window, then back at the floppy-haired, beloved face that she knows so well, looking right at her.

"Why do we still look like ourselves to each other when we're not looking at the reflection?"

"Well, because _we_ still see who we really are, of course," he explains. "Remember, it's only our consciousness that did the moving to this time and place." He takes his cane and twirls it. "And it's _brilliant_, Clara. The ultimate short-cut time-travel! You could sit on the loo and watch the fall of Rome all at the same time."

Clara's face falls. "Please tell me we're not on the loo somewhere."

"No," he says, looking slightly scandalized, and popping his cane to the ground with a dramatic _clack_. "We're still in the restaurant. We could probably spend years here and only a few seconds would pass for our bodies, because it's all taking place up _here_," he says, tapping his head again.

He feels around in another pocket of his coat. "Ah, and look what else I've got!" he says, holding up a flask, screwing off the lid, and sniffing it. "Lemon tea."

"Wait a minute," she says, frowning again. "If _we're_ not even really here, than how can that be here?"

"Well, it's probably not really lemon tea." He sniffs again. "Probably it's some kind of horrid whiskey, but to us, it'll taste like tea because our subconscious needs something to…. you know," he says, trailing off.

"To what?"

The Doctor sighs. "Bring us back to the restaurant."

"Well," Clara says, shrugging. "We did only just get there." She touches the brim of his hat. "And you do love hats…"

His eyes hold hers. "I adore them."

She clears her throat and smiles, trying to ignore the way his gaze can weaken her knees, along with her resolve. "So I guess we can enjoy it while we're here," she says, taking his hand. "Although come to that, I have to wonder are we _here_ in particular? I don't ever recall _fantasizing_ about coming to Bath in 1796. I don't even recall thinking it."

"Well, you must have been thinking about something that's here in Bath, because…."

"Ah, Doctor, you finally arrived!"

They both look up to see a tall man with a friendly face and a vicar's collar striding towards them.

The Doctor's face gives a clueless smile. "Ah, yes. Hullo…. old thing," he says, shaking the man's outstretched hand.

"I was very pleased to hear that you were coming to help with the Grand Pump," the vicar tells them heartily.

The Doctor blinks at him. "Wouldn't have missed it."

"Terribly exciting, yes, indeed," the man agrees, rocking on his heels. "Unearthing all those mysterious artefacts, and… oh, I do beg your pardon," he says, turning to Clara, "you must be Mrs. Oswald." He smiles and takes her gloved hand, bending over it.

"Er, yes," the Doctor says, "Clara, may I present the Reverend…" he trails off.

"George Austen, madam," the man tells Clara cheerfully. "Delighted to make your acquaintance, Mrs. Oswald."

And she hears that word a second time, which is why she's suddenly frowning.

"I'm sorry, did you just say _Mrs._ Oswald?"

The vicar's face blushes. "Oh dear, I am sorry. I heard you'd both been living abroad in those wild countries where ladies don't typically use the surname of their husbands. I do apologize for assuming that…." he gestures to the both of them, "..as Doctor Oswald's wife…"

"_What?!_" they both say at the same time, making the vicar jump back slightly.

"_Wife?_" Clara demands, eyes wide.

"Doctor _Oswald_?" demands the Doctor, indignation written all over him.

"I beg your pardon?" the vicar nearly squeaks, glancing at them both warily.

"Hold on a tic," says the Doctor, clicking his fingers. "_What_ mysterious artefacts?"

"_What _wife?" Clara says, her mouth a round 'o', but the Doctor shushes her, and peers questioningly at the only one out of the three of them who seems to know what's going on.

"The…the ones being unearthed at the Roman Baths," the vicar says nervously. "The ones Doctor Oswald here was hired by our Board of Trustees to examine while the architects finish restoring the Grand Pump Room."

"Why would they hire me?" the Doctor asks suspiciously.

The vicar blusters. "Well, because you're an expert in this sort of thing. Metals that can't be identified, artefacts written in unknown languages, people going odd after visiting the baths…"

"Stop," the Doctor says, holding up a hand. "Define odd."

"Well, not always odd," the vicar continues nervously. "Most people have said they felt… healed or inspired afterwards. My own daughter Jane went with me to visit the other day and said…"

"Stop," now Clara is the one who holds up her hand. "Jane," she says. "As in _Jane Austen_?"

"Yes," the vicar says, beaming at last. "Are you an acquaintance of my Jane's?"

Clara swallows. "Er, in a rather roundabout way."

"Well, the whole family's been here with me while I visit the Board on business. I've been thinking of moving here, you see. Thought it would be like a little holiday for Jane, who's been a bit unwell lately," he says, tut-tutting about his daughter over whom Clara was nearly clutching her heart with amazement.

"But if you've met her, I'm sure she'd be delighted to see you again," George Austen continues. "Why don't you both come for tea this afternoon? I can send my carriage to collect you around 3 o'clock, and you can tell me all about your adventures in the wilds."

"Getting wilder by the minute," Clara mutters, and the Doctor nudges her.

"We'd love to," he says firmly, "and, er, where will you be collecting us, exactly?"

"The Board reserved a room for you at a nearby inn," George tells them, frowning. "Did they not send word?"

Clara and the Doctor shake their heads.

"It's just down Pulteney street, at the edge of the park. The Blue Box Inn." He smiles, completely missing the mouths of Clara and the Doctor now hanging open. "You can't miss it," he says, bowing, and is gone.

* * *

"We're _married_?" Clara whirls on him.

"The _Blue Box Inn_?" The Doctor retorts, wide-eyed. "I mean, there are cosmic coincidences, but that's really..."

"Doctor," she interrupts him. "We're _married_."

"Yes, that's what he said," he nods, then scowls, "And apparently I'm _Doctor Oswald_!"

"Well, _I _didn't wish for that!"

"Oh, that would be _just _like you, wouldn't it?" the Doctor says, rolling his eyes at her. "Making me take your name. I mean, really, Clara, there's bossy and then there's…."

"I mean I didn't wish for us to be married!" she yells, stamping her foot.

He looks at her, wide-eyed. "Well, don't look at _me_. I'm not the marrying sort."

Clara blinks, drops her mouth in amazement. "You've been married _five times_!"

He waves her away. "Oh, only the one on Gallifrey actually counted, and that was so long ago that…" he stops, frowning at her. "It's not like we haven't pretended to be married before."

She knows he's talking about their investigation of Sweetville and Mrs. Gillyflower.

"What's so different this time?" he says, even though he knows, he bloody well knows.

Last time they hadn't pretended to be a couple shortly after she'd had her legs wrapped around his waist while he ground himself into her, or had him kissing her like he was never going to stop. And she can't let this fantasy continue because…. because… she's standing here in the romantic age of Jane Austen, with her empire dress and straw hat and the Doctor in his breeches and top hat that makes his hair sort of curl around his impossible ears. And he's holding her arm in his and there's apparently a Blue Box Inn where their room will have a bed for two and where the Doctor belongs to her and she belongs to him.

It's everything she's ever wanted and can never have in a way she'll get to keep, and if he doesn't get her out of here this second, she's sure she's either going to scream or break down in tears again.

"I want to go back," she tells him. "Now."

"But," he stammers. "You just got invited to _meet Jane Austen_." His mouth drops open at the implication. "And I, apparently, have mysterious artefact-y things to investigate! What else could you want in a fantasy?"

_You. You, you ridiculous-chinned, lovely, beautiful, maddening man. I want you, and can't have you!_

"Give me the tea, Doctor."

"But, Clara…"

"Now."

He searches her face, frowning, then finally sighs, reaching into his pocket again for the flask.

"You're really taking all the fun out of this, you know," he says, and takes a quick sip.

"You can punish me later," she says, reaching for the flask, and rolling her eyes when he turns crimson with heat. "Oh, for heaven's sake, you know what I mean." She sips quickly, before she can change her mind.

And nothing happens.

"We're still here."

"It rather looks that way, doesn't it?"

"Why are we still here?"

She sees him swallow. "I'm not sure."

"Did you drink it?"

"Yes."

"So why didn't it work?"

He runs a hand across his chin, then taps it with his finger. "Well," he says, eyebrow raising, "there is one possibility."

"Which is?"

"I'd rather not say."

"And why is that?"

"You'll get angry."

Clara takes a long, calming breath. "Try me, anyway."

The Doctor's mouth quirks nervously. "Well, there is the slight chance we might be trapped…ish."

"We're _trapped_ here?"

"Yes. Well, only somewhat trapped if it makes you feel better, but no, not really because we're pretty definitely trapped." The Doctor gives a high-pitched tinkling laugh, shuffling his hands.

She stares at him, open-mouthed. "_I don't see how this is funny_!"

"Well, if you look at it from a certain perspective," he says, holding up his fingers and spacing them together to indicate a small amount, "it is, in fact, slightly funny."

"And how's that, exactly?"

"Well, I'm pretty sure we're trapped because it's part of the fantasy."

And now her eyes are round as saucers. "What do you mean, _part of the fantasy_? I may love Jane Austen and so I can see how the food plucked that out of my subconscious and we ended up living practically as her neighbor, but Doctor, I do _not_ like being trapped. It's in my top five of things I don't like, so I don't see how being stuck here is supposed to be part of my fantasy."

"Ah, yes, well, clarifying on my earlier point, I may also have an explanation for that part." His hands rub faster together, and she narrows her eyes.

"Which is?"

"The being trapped part might, possibly, maybe be part of _my_ fantasy."

Her eyes become slits. "Say that again," she growls, rounding on him, and he holds up his hands defensively.

"Well, it was the last thing I remembered thinking before we started eating. I remembered thinking how I didn't want you to leave me and…" he stops, and stammers, "actually, I think in my head it came out as that I didn't want you _to be able_ to leave me." He looks at her sheepishly, and then gives another nervous laugh. "Hence the you ending up as my wife and also which might, perhaps be why the tea isn't working. Because it's still doing what I asked."

She breathes deeply, glaring at him. "Well, then concentrate on us going _back_ to the restaurant, and let's try the tea again."

"Oh, alright," he says glumly.

They both sip the tea and Clara smiles, waiting. And, once again, nothing happens.

She frowns at him. "Did you concentrate?"

"Yes."

"Then why didn't it work?" she demands, sipping her tea over and over.

The Doctor sighs. "Because…. I didn't really mean it," he says plaintively. "I don't _want_ you to leave."

"Well, _mean_ it this time."

"I can't. It doesn't work that way. Even if I were to try to convince myself that I wanted to leave, my subconscious would know I was lying and we'd still be here."

"Well," she sputters, looking around, "what are we supposed to do then?"

The Doctor shrugs. "I don't know. I don't know when my subconscious will decide it wants us to go back. It'll happen when it's ready, I imagine." He sees her, chewing her thumbnail and tapping her foot, and he sighs. "There is one thing we could do, of course."

Clara looks up. "There is? What?"

He smiles at her tentatively. "What you suggested. Try to enjoy it while we're here."

She feels something in her jaw click, and he gives her a wide grin. "Guess you'll be having that tea with Jane Austen, after all."

* * *

To be continued…..

**A/N 2: I just couldn't help myself after the Doctor's little speech about Jane Austen in "The Caretaker". Besides, any excuse to get him into Georgian kit has got to be a good thing, right? Hope you're enjoying, and please let me know in a review if you are. :-)**


	7. Mains, part 2

**A/N: First, Thank you so much for all the lovely reviews, favorites, and follows! You all absolutely get me grinning from ear-to-ear!**

**Second, I do apologize that this chapter is relatively short compared to my usual updates, but you know the drill: real life dared to interfere with my writing time, yadda yadda, and I figured that even a short update would be better than waiting an extra week for a longer version. **

**Anyway, I do hope it's enjoyed, and many, MANY thanks again for the kind feedback! **

* * *

MAINS, part 2

* * *

Clara is smiling at him, which makes for a nice change, considering the fact that she scowled the entire walk over here.

The Doctor, however, had practically skipped the whole way. There was, of course, the whole business about being trapped in 1796 Bath for an indeterminable amount of time, but then, as long as they were _here_, the chances of Clara hiking up her skirts and running away from him in the opposite direction were practically nonexistent. And with that exceedingly cheerful thought going through his head, _not_ skipping actually took a bit of an effort.

But Clara is smiling now, and the Doctor thinks it might be because he's not just skipping, he's dancing around the room, using a red velvet coat as a partner.

"Shall I leave the two of you alone?" she says, and he scowls at her, because really, she should have recognized it.

Granted, he's mostly just glad that she's speaking to him. When they'd arrived at the front door of The Blue Box Inn, whose rectangular structure and nearly perfect TARDIS-blue color had caused her to raise an eyebrow at him, he'd been more shocked to discover that they were already well-known to the landlord, Mr. Noyes. Apparently, the Dr. and Mrs. Oswald whose bodies they were inhabiting had not only arrived in Bath last night, but they were still in the process of unpacking their luggage, judging by the open trunk that sat near their bed.

Remembering that moment made the Doctor's cheeks flame a bit, when they'd both realized that, as husband and wife, of course there would only be one room. One room with one bed in it. Clara had looked everywhere but directly at the brass bed when they'd stepped inside the room together.

They'd covered the awkwardness by rifling through the Oswald's luggage, to get an idea of the people they were impersonating, and it was then that the Doctor had pulled out a glorious wine-coloured velvet coat, one that was nearly identical to the one he'd worn long ago. And now, spinning it around while Clara rolls her eyes at him, he lets it fall along with his arms, as he pouts at her.

"Doesn't it look familiar _at all_?"

She's sitting on a chair by the fireplace, far away, he notices, from the bed. She shakes her head and he sighs.

"Picture it with a fedora and a multi-coloured scarf," he says, and mimes throwing a scarf over his shoulder.

Clara's eyes widen, and she points at the fabric in his hands. "It's your coat!"

He beams at her. "Well, technically it's this Oswald fellow's coat as this is his stuff. He just also happens to have my devastatingly good taste." He puts on the coat and yanks Clara out of the chair, laughing at the little yelp of surprise she gives and twirls her around the room.

"What about you?" he asks, still dancing with her in a way that decidedly non-Georgian. "What does Mrs. Oswald like to wear?"

Clara laughs, and he thinks again how much he loves the sound of it.

"I only saw a few dresses," she says. "Maybe we're not scheduled to be here for very long."

He shrugs, grinning uncontrollably, still holding her in his arms and dancing. "Well, it's like I said, isn't it? It's all happening telepathically, so we can stay forever if we want."

Clara stills in his arms, looking up at him, and he wishes he had the TARDIS just so he could go backwards in time about four seconds. Because he's just used the word she hates, the horrible word that makes her turn away from him: _forever_.

"I just meant," he says slowly, still not letting go of her, "we can stay as long as we want."

She nods slowly, and though she's trying to smile, he can see the light's gone out of it. "I know."

But the damage is done. Clara pulls back a bit, and he has no choice but to let her go. She steps backwards, and lets her gaze fall to the red velvet coat. She smiles, patting down the lapels.

"It suits this version of you just as much," she says fondly.

"Thank you," he tells her, but his voice is strangled, and he wants, more than anything, for her to move towards him, so that he can envelop her in his arms once more and this time not let go.

But Clara spins around, moving over to the trunk with all the belongings of their body-hosts. "I did find one thing about Mrs. Oswald," she says, her voice unnaturally perky, trying to restore the lighthearted mood, he knows. "She's got a weird thing for gravy boats."

The Doctor's brows furrow. "Gravy boats?"

"Yeah," Clara says, laughing. "I saw two of them all carefully wrapped up in the trunk." She digs a bit and then brings forth a ceramic dish that, sure enough, looks much like a gravy boat. Except it's not, and the Doctor has a hard time containing his smile.

"Er, yeah, not a gravy boat."

Clara frowns, sticking her finger in the dish and swinging it around. "What is it, then?"

"It's a bourdaloue," he informs her, really, really trying not to laugh, and, when she continues frowning, finally adding, "A chamber pot."

"Eurgh!" she cries, flinging it across the room, and frantically wiping her hands on her dress, while the Doctor finally gives in to a fit of giggles. "They go to the _toilet_ in that?"

"Well, women do. Men still have the option of the nearest bit of shrubbery."

"Blech," she mutters, still wiping her hands, while he sputters with another bout of giggles. "So not funny!" she yells at him, and he shakes his head.

"Entirely funny," he insists. "And I'll tell you something else. If you've ever wondered, in all my incarnations, why I never regenerated as a woman, you can take it to the bank that _that_ is reason number one."

He takes a nearby cloth from their dressing table and dips it in the adjacent pitcher of water, then walks over to wash her hands.

"Do you have anything stronger than water? Like Fairy Soap? Or Dettol?" she asks, still wrinkling her nose in distaste, but the Doctor is finding it hard to listen.

Because one hand is tenderly holding Clara's wrist, while the other wipes her fingers, and he's hoping that she hasn't noticed how much his movements have slowed as he brushes the wet cloth along each digit, not so much cleaning as caressing, or that his own fingers are lingering over her skin. The sensation of wet flesh against wet flesh is bringing back everything they'd done in the ocean, the way she'd kissed him, the taste of her skin mixed with the seawater, the way she'd lifted to wrap her legs around him.

Suddenly, there is no mystery in the universe more compelling than Clara's small, soft hands.

"I guess," he hears her whisper, as though from far away, "I can see how that would be useful."

"What?"

She's biting her lower lip, and now _that's_ the most fascinating thing he's ever seen.

"Having, you know, the convenience of male parts," she says, "when you're someone who never stops traveling."

The Doctor tears his gaze from her eyes because he realizes she's just said something significant. Because she's reminding him of who he is, when all is said and done: a traveler who never stops traveling. That's _his_ forever. And for the first time since he can remember, he suddenly wishes it wasn't.

"Clara…" he begins, but never gets to finish, because there's a faint knocking on the door of their room.

"Dr. Oswald?" calls the voice of the Inn's landlord.

The Doctor's eyes are still glued to Clara's. He doesn't want to leave, and has no idea how to make her understand, or even dare to believe it. He doesn't want to leave her.

"Yes?" Clara calls out.

"There's a carriage downstairs for you, sir," Mr. Noyes says from the hallway, and the Doctor sees Clara look towards the door, then back again.

"Time to go," she tells him, and his hearts sink in his chest. She'll tell him that again, and one day, it'll be the last time she says it, because it will be the day she walks out the TARDIS and never returns. The thought makes his blood freeze.

But Clara only squeezes his hand, still holding hers, and gives him a watery smile. "Come on, Doctor," she says. "Jane Austen is waiting."

He feels her slip from his fingers, reaching for her straw hat that she'd hung on a peg by the door, and as she picks up her little cape and purse, turning the door's handle, the Doctor knows only one thing:

He'll never stop waiting for Clara Oswald.

* * *

to be continued...


	8. Mains, part 3

**A/N: Thanks to all for the reviews!**

**So glad you're still enjoying this!**

* * *

MAINS, part 3

* * *

The ride to George Austen's cottage takes longer than they'd thought, and Clara is finding it hard to maintain her resolve in keeping things platonic. It's made considerably worse by the fact that the carriage constantly seems to be bouncing her directly into the lap of the Doctor.

"Sorry," she says again, as her body is pushed up against his for the tenth time. "Don't remember carriages being quite this rough."

The Doctor runs a finger around his collar, as though he, too, is finding it hard not to notice the way her hand keeps landing on his thigh to keep from falling off of her seat.

"Well, the Victorian roads were in slightly better shape," he says, then adds, "Anyway, it's a good thing you _don't _remember everything from your other lives. Your brain wouldn't be able to handle it and probably would have gone all…" he waves his hands around for effect, "…kaplooey."

Clara nods. "Yeah, I guess that's…. hang on."

"What? I wasn't hanging on to anything," he says rapidly, and she sees him looking furtively at her breasts. She sighs and mentally redoubles her resolve.

"Why are _you_ still okay in a human body?" she asks. "Or rather, how's this Dr. Oswald's brain still okay with you in it? You've told me before that a human mind can't hold a Time Lord consciousness. So how come _his _brain hasn't, you know…."

"Gone kaplooey?"

She nods, and the Doctor smiles. "I suspect my entire consciousness hasn't been deposited all at once," he tells her. "It's telepathic, remember, and that can either be one big download _or_ a continually running circuit. My guess is that the latter happened. It means I can take what I need for each moment without making this human brain get overwhelmed."

"Like a computer connected to a hard-drive?"

"Yes, exactly. The computer can pull out information as it needs it, and not have to store everything that's in the hard drive to be functional."

"But doesn't that mean that you're not entirely you?" Clara asks, frowning again.

"Of course it's all me. But I don't have to think everything I've ever thought or said or did simultaneously for it to be me. I don't do that even when I'm in my own body. No one does that, except for the TARDIS." He says and she's reminded of the Blue Box Inn, which is so TARDIS-like that if she hadn't seen the rose vines growing up the sides, she might have thought it was just a larger version of his spaceship.

"I wonder if the TARDIS knows she's got a bigger, sexier twin sister in 18th century Bath?" Clara says, smiling, and the Doctor gasps with indignation.

"Clara, you have clearly suffered some sort of brain injury during the mind-transfer," he says, puffing up with disbelief. "There is _nothing _sexier than my TARDIS!"

Even his eyebrows are quivering with indignation, and Clara giggles at the sight, bouncing once more into his lap. And yet at the same time, she knows, it's a reminder of where she ranks. No woman will ever be loved by this beautiful, mad, wonderful man like the most important companion of all- the blue one that he'll never leave.

She feels the laughter die on her face, and the Doctor seems to see it, because he gives her a narrow-eyed smile. "Best hope I never tell her you said that. She'll take away your bathroom next."

Clara's mouth quirks, because he has no idea how much she wishes that she could crawl into the safety on his arms, make time stand still, and be perfectly and utterly content with nothing more than the Doctor's arm around her shoulder, her head pressed against the plane of his chest, his chin resting against her temple. If the TARDIS could give her that, she'd get on her knees and kiss its floor.

Instead, because she's the biggest coward in the universe, she makes a face at him. "_You'd_ best hope I never tell her you spent illicit nights in another blue box," she says, and watches him raise an eyebrow.

"They're going to be illicit?" he asks, his voice so low that heat pools in her belly.

Clara mentally kicks herself with her hardest steel-toed boots, and flashes him a nervous smile. "Oh, she'll forgive you, anyway," she says, patently ignoring his question. "I guess blue and boxy things just gravitate to you, somehow."

The Doctor seems to study her eyes, searching, but finally he takes her arm, and gives her a slow Cheshire grin. "Lots of things gravitate towards me," he tells her in that same low voice, just as the carriage begins to slow. "And I don't always give them back."

* * *

The Doctor is apologizing profusely, and Clara is trying to sink into the cushion of the chair upon which she is sitting and disappear because all she can think is: _I just spit tea all over Jane Austen._

"Sorry, _so_ sorry," the Doctor cries, digging out his handkerchief and dabbing it on Jane Austen's sodden elbow, while her father looks on awkwardly.

Clara's eyes are squeezed tight, because this is quite possibly the nightmare version of any dream she'd ever had about meeting one of history's most beloved writers. Upon being introduced, she'd shaken Jane's hands and then giggled maniacally, unable to speak.

When Jane and her father had shown them the tea service, and invited them to sit, Clara still had not been able to get her tongue to work. In fact, she was quite sure that Jane Austen was going to think she was entirely mute or insane, or possibly both, so she'd quickly grabbed her cup of tea and the first question out of Jane's mouth had been: "So you are the time-travelers?"

Tea is still dripping from Jane's earlobe, while the Doctor produces another handkerchief, and Clara decides that she'd like to be erased from existence now, thank you all for coming.

"No, forgive me," Jane is saying earnestly, her wide-set eyes anxious in a face that seems unbearably young, even though Jane cannot be much younger than Clara herself. "It is my unfortunate habit to employ overly fanciful expressions, rather than calling things as they are," Jane tells them taking the Doctor's handkerchief. "It's entirely my fault, Mrs. Oswald."

Clara gives her a sheepish smile and then bites her lip because this is worse than snogging the Doctor in front of multiple aliens on the restaurant balcony. She looks at the Doctor in desperation and mouths _Help Me!_ For some reason, this only amuses him.

"No, you're perfectly right, Miss Austen," he says. "I suppose anyone who studies ancient civilizations is a bit of a time traveler."

"It must be very exciting for you, too, Mrs. Oswald, always going someplace new," George Austen says, while Jane wipes the last of the tea from her face.

But somehow, the question makes Clara find her voice, and she glances quickly at the Doctor, before she answers. "Sometimes. But there's an appeal to staying in one place, too."

The Doctor's eyes catch hers, and she has to look away so as not to see the hurt in his face. Fortunately, Jane rescues her.

"On that we most heartily agree, Mrs. Oswald," she says, glancing over at her father, her young face suddenly serious, and Clara watches Jane's hands fold in her lap, as though trying not to ball them into fists.

"Ah, Jane, in time you might find that…" her father begins, but Jane cuts him off.

"Mrs. Oswald, I wonder if you'd like to see our garden," she says quickly, turning to Clara. "There's a lovely hedge maze that is in full bloom."

Clara's eyes widen. "I… um." She looks helplessly at the Doctor, who simply shrugs and smiles.

"Do go on, _Mrs. Oswald_," he says, his eyes laughing. "Imagine what you'll be able to put on Bebo when you get home."

"Bebo?" says George Austen excitedly. "Isn't that a place in Persia?"

The Doctor grins. "On second thought, I'd better hold your tea," he tells Clara, taking the cup and saucer from her, while her eyes narrow into slits. "Besides, I'd love to hear more about my assignment tomorrow from the good Reverend."

George Austen seems immediately distracted from his brooding daughter as he turns to the Doctor with enthusiasm. "Indeed, sir, there is much to discuss."

"Very well, it is settled," Jane says, clearly pleased and holding out her hand.

Clara takes it uncertainly, following the literary giant out of the drawing room, still mouthing to the Doctor: _What are you doing?!_ and watching him mouth back, smiling, _Have fun!_

* * *

"I do apologize again, Mrs. Oswald," Jane tells her as they walk into the garden maze, it's green hedge tops dotted with summer flowers that perfume the cool evening air. "I'm not normally one to be so churlish with my father, but… you see, he has been debating on whether or not to move our family to Bath, and I must confess that I hope this will prove not to be the case."

Clara looks at her in surprise. "You don't want to move?"

"No," Jane says fervently. "I am afraid I would much prefer to stay at our home, for it is there that our family and friends have forged their ties. I know some would see it as an adventure, but for me, it is more akin to being uprooted."

"Yeah," Clara sighs heavily. "I know that feeling."

"I know it must seem silly to someone like you, who is married and travels all the time."

"What? Oh, right." Except she's not married to him, and there's little to no hope that she'll ever stop traveling as long as she can't sever her own ties- the ones firmly wrapped around the Doctor.

"Dr. Oswald is much younger than I expected, for someone who has accomplished so much in his field," Jane comments, and Clara sighs.

"Oh, he's much older than he looks," she says absently. But Jane only continues to smile at her.

"It must be a source of great happiness to be able to travel with him to the sites of so many wondrous civilizations."

_It is, oh, it is. And it isn't even the wonders that make me happy, it's him, just the Doctor with his silly chin and Jammie Dodgers and his glorious soul._

And everything she's thinking must show on her face, because Jane is smiling more broadly than ever. "You are a very lucky woman, Mrs. Oswald, to be in a marriage where there is such love."

It snaps Clara out of her reverie. Because no, no, no she can't love him, she _must not_ love him.

"Why do you say that?" she asks, and is surprised to see genuine consternation on the face of the young authoress.

"Because it is plain to see," she says, as though the fact that the Doctor and Clara are in love is patently obvious. "My heavens," she laughs out loud, "your husband gazes upon with you with an expression that is close to worship."

Clara almost snorts. "He worships a blue box, not me."

"I do not know this box of which you speak, but I can see your Doctor's eyes that follow you about the room as though enslaved. His is the face of one who would do anything at all for your happiness."

But Clara shakes her head, because even Jane Austen's imagination couldn't conceive of the whole story. If only she knew that the devoted Doctor would probably only _be_ devoted for another few years at best, before Clara, though still female and compassionate, would simply be too old to run away from danger with him. And the idea that he, that whirling, daring, beloved madman would simply park his TARDIS in her garden, plop down on the sofa beside her and say, "Well, I was getting tired of adventure, anyway, what's for tea and telly for the next five decades?" was beyond absurd.

It was absolutely impossible, even for the impossible girl.

"He wouldn't do _anything_," she says softly. "He wouldn't change the future, for one thing."

"But," Jane says, struggling, "surely the future is unwritten."

"Maybe through your eyes," Clara replies, and the bitterness in her voice must have leaked through because Jane is suddenly looking at her with a new, odd expression, and shaking her head.

"Through the eyes of anyone who has ever been in love," she tells Clara firmly.

And something in Clara's brain begins to click. If this was 1796, then this was the year that Jane Austen had been rumoured to have fallen in love. And very soon afterwards, she had lost that love, who had left her for another, shinier model. The parallel isn't lost on Clara, and suddenly, she no longer sees Jane Austen, historical titan, but rather a woman who, exactly like herself, is being torn by her own heart.

She feels Jane's eyes on her, surveying, and finally hears her speak. "Mrs. Oswald, we've only just met, so I hope you'll forgive me for my impertinence. And perhaps you will understand that it is the voice of envy that that speaks to you now, for I…." Jane stops, then swallows as though gathering her courage. "The man whom I had hoped to marry recently was forced to abandon those intentions," she says, and even though her voice is soft, Clara can see her eyes are blazing. "He was mine, all too briefly, and now is to be married to someone else. He will never belong to me as I'd hoped, or I to him."

And Clara's heart twists because it is exactly what she feels her future holds, if she gives in to her feelings for the Doctor. Except that Jane isn't finished. She takes another breath and continues. "It is the reason that I so wish to stay where my family still lives, for it is the place which holds so many cherished memories of him, and of times when he did belong to me."

Clara frowns at her. "But wouldn't it be better to move somewhere else, start fresh? You might even meet someone new?"

Jane looks at her in disbelief. "What would be the point in that? My heart would know it wasn't real."

"But surely in time…" Clara tries, and this time Jane laughs.

"Oh, Mrs. Oswald, now you sound like my father," she says, clasping her hands. "They are all so terrified that I will never marry now, that I will never love again. And I suspect they are right. Love, when real and true the first time, is hardly ever duplicated in the same lifetime."

Clara thinks of the flashing images of the Doctor's companions, which the TARDIS had once shown her in a fit of pique. "You'd be surprised at how many loves a person can have in one lifetime," she says softly, but the woman beside her seems unconvinced.

"Perhaps," Jane says. "But I'll confide something else to you. If it were somehow possible to turn back time and have the man I loved here beside me, whether it was for one lifetime, a day, even an hour, I would throw away every bit of my dignity before I would let it stop me from being happy with him."

Clara's mouth is open in surprise, looking into the burning eyes of Jane Austen, and before she can reply, she hears another voice coming from the door of the house.

"Clara? I think we should be getting back," the Doctor calls out, and when she turns to look at him, her heart leaps in her chest at the sight of his face, his floppy hair and green eyes, and every tiny detail that makes her adore him so completely.

And Jane Austen is pressing her hand. "Love is too precious to be squandered by pride, Mrs. Oswald," she whispers, as though it's the most important sentence she's ever uttered. "You mustn't ever forget that."

She's standing in the middle of a maze, just like her own topsy-turvy life with a time-traveling alien who makes her zoom from terrified to blissful at least twenty times a day. She's never felt less in control, and when she looks back, she sees the Doctor is smiling at her.

He's holding out his hand and waiting to take her home.

* * *

The ride back is far smoother, with much less rocking, as they head back to the Inn at a leisurely pace. Clara is still staring out the window, with Jane Austen's words rattling around her brain, when she feels the Doctor nudge her.

"_That_ was something you don't see every day," he says, smiling at her.

She gives a short laugh. "I'll say."

"I was actually glad that the two of you left the room," he tells her, "she was getting far too close to the truth for comfort."

And Clara's mouth runs dry because the only thing she remembers Jane Austen saying is how much the Doctor was desperately in love with her. But that was when they were in the garden, so she mentally shakes the branches of her brain and remembers the phrase that had caused her to spit tea all over the poor young woman. Clara frowns at him. "Oh, the time-traveler remark?" she asks. "Wasn't that because you're supposed to be an archeologist or something?"

"From what I gleaned from George Austen's mind, I've got Doctorates in Physical Science as well as Ancient Civilizations."

"Wow, no wonder they were impressed with you."

He scoffs. "Please. I could do those things with my eyes closed."

"Your modesty really never fails to astonish me," Clara says, blinking at him.

"Well, that's why they hired this Dr. Oswald. The Board that's rebuilding the Roman Baths wants me to examine some of the artefacts they've discovered. I saw a few of them in Reverend Austen's memory. But it wasn't _his _memory that worried me, it was how Miss Austen was reading _ours_."

Clara's eyes widen. "What?"

The Doctor nods. "Yes, indeed. Jane Austen- psychic network of the 18th century. That 'time-traveler' bit wasn't just her using an expression. I mean, her brain probably re-interpreted everything as us just discovering ancient places, but she got it right away as soon as I touched her hand."

"Got what?" Clara's brows are furrowed.

"Got the sense that we're time-travelers. She knew because she's a latent telepath."

Her mouth drops open. "You're joking." But the Doctor shakes his head again.

"Not at all, and it's not even that uncommon among most of the great writers," he explains. "A lot of them have had varying degrees of subconscious telepathic ability. I think it's why they were able to understand the human condition so well." He frowns. "Which really goes to show how complex you are as a species because I'm _definitely_ telepathic and I _still_ haven't figured you lot out."

Clara can hardly suppress her smile. "She's psychic, you're not putting me on?"

"Why would I lie about that?" She eyes him carefully.

"Dunno. It's just what you do, though, isn't it?"

He stares at her and finally says. "Not about everything."

And a little chill runs up her spine, because if Jane had known about the time-travel, then what she'd said about the Doctor being in love with her might also be… She shakes her head and stamps down the thought. But it scratches at her, like a kitten clawing for attention, and Clara has to mentally focus on something else.

It's then that she notices that the Doctor's arm is around her, that she's tucked into that perfect spot beneath his chin, the one she'd thought of when they'd been on their way to the Austen house. It doesn't have to mean anything. He knows she's tired, his shoulder is right there, and it could still be just a thing that a friend would do for another friend. Except… except every now and then, she feels his lips brush across the top of her head, or his long, knobbly fingers brush up and down against the exposed part of her forearm.

It _could_ be just a friendly gesture. But then, if it is, why does he seem to be holding her like he has no intention of ever letting go?

* * *

"Do you want anything to eat?" the Doctor asks her when the finally reach the Inn, "I could ask them to send something up."

Clara shakes her head, even while her insides warm because when he's like _this_, so utterly caring and tender, thinking of her every need and rushing to fill it, she knows it would take so little to push her over the edge, the one to which she is still so desperately clinging.

"I just want to get to sleep," she tells him. "I know I shouldn't, but I feel exhausted."

He wraps an arm around her waist as they reach the door to their room and step inside. "Then bed it will be," the Doctor says softly, "And don't worry, I can sleep in the chair."

But he leads her to the bed, sitting her down, and kneeling at her feet. It should make alarm bells begin to clang, but somehow, she already knows he isn't doing anything that crosses any boundaries. His fingers are too tender as he slips off her shoes and unrolls the stockings from her thighs. He only leaves her side to dig through the Oswald's clothes trunk, pulling out a white chemise and a man's night-shirt.

"Here," he says gently, handing her the chemise. "I'll turn around so you can change."

She takes the garment gratefully, but almost doesn't care if he sees her naked. She almost always _feels_ naked in front of him, in the maddening way he knows too much and sees too much, so why not be literal this time? But instead she nods and smiles at him, and watches him move to the other side of the bed. She peeks over her shoulder and sees the Doctor is already undressing, his coat laid across the trunk, and his shirt sliding off of his shoulders.

She quickly turns and hears the faint thud of his trousers hitting the floor, then the rustle of fabric as he pulls the nightshirt over himself. He must turn around again, because the next thing she hears is his voice, confused.

"Aren't you going to put on your night clothes?" he asks, and Clara feels her face burning.

"I can't get out of the dress by myself," she tells him in a whisper. "It's laced up the back." She chances a glance at him, and sees his eyes are wide.

"Oh."

"Yeah," she tries to laugh. "Could you?" She points to her back, and the Doctor rushes back towards her.

"Sorry, of course," he says, and she stands so that he can have easier access. But not before she glances at his fingers, which are bending and flexing, as though not quite sure what to do. She thinks fleetingly that if he had his screwdriver with him, he'd sonic the laces right off of her. But he surprises her again. The Doctor wraps a hand around her waist and pulls her backwards just a bit, so that her back is inches from his chest.

"I really never understood," he says, and she feels his hands moving up her back towards the top of the laces, "why women throughout the centuries seem to enjoy complicated clothing." She can hear the laces being pulled, and she can almost picture his hands, his impossibly old, gnarled hands that don't belong on the rest of his body that seems so young. "When it's always what's inside the clothing that's much more interesting."

She tries to laugh. "You mean a naked woman?"

The Doctor frowns, turning her to face him. "I mean what's inside here," he says, laying a hand over her heart. And she wants to kiss him so much that she would swear that the entire universe is throwing everything at her to make it happen.

Instead, she laughs again. "Yeah, because _that's_ not complicated at all."

The Doctor gazes at her, searching. "It's only complicated if you make it that way," he says, and turns around again, so that she can let her dress fall to the floor and pull the chemise over her head. She does both, her heart like a lead sinker in her chest.

_I'd throw away every bit of my dignity just to have one hour with him…._

"Doctor?" she asks, her voice small.

"Yes?"

"Don't sleep in the chair. Come to bed with me." She sees in his face the war going on, one where he doesn't want to hope and one where he most certainly is daring to do just that. "Just stay beside me, Doctor, please," she says, and sees the war is won. She sits down on the bed, folding the covers over her, and the Doctor doesn't hesitate. He slips in beside her, and pulls her head to his chest, letting her listen to the rhythm of a single heart beating beneath the skin. And suddenly, she feels as though she hasn't slept for years, eons.

"Always, my Clara," she hears him whisper, his hand idly stroking her hair, while she feels sleep creeping over her. "I'll always stay beside you."

* * *

to be continued


	9. Mains, part 4

**A/N: Thank you ALL so much for the great feedback! I'm so tickled that people are enjoying this story, because I'm definitely having fun writing for these awesome characters.**

**In other news, I am, like most Whoffle fans, in a complete and utter emotional puddle following the finale, so naturally right now all I want to do is get them together (TOGETHER, dammit!) and go back to my happy place. However, this being a story, I sort of have to follow the laws of pacing and development and all that, so please be patient. The good news is the wait won't be much longer. I work faster than Santa Claus. ;-)**

**Massive thanks again, as always, for the reviews, faves, and follows!**

* * *

MAINS, part 4

* * *

_That's it. We didn't go to a Restaurant at all, the TARDIS must have exploded and now I'm in Heaven._

She's _mostly_ certain of it, anyway.

Because as the Doctor is rising out of the steaming water of the ancient Roman baths, his white shirt clinging to him, exposing the skin underneath, Clara is now definitely certain that the reason they landed on Jane Austen's doorstep is because she'd secretly had _this_ particular fantasy lurking in the deepest, most secret part of her mind. True, she'd never quite pictured the Doctor-as-wet-Darcy to be sputtering with disbelief, though she also couldn't really blame him because…

"You… you _pushed_ me!" he's shouting at her, flapping the water off of his hands.

It was his own fault, really. He'd just taken off the velvet coat, far too hot in the sweltering heat, and the steam was unfurling from the water, and he'd even undone his collar, and it was all _right there_…..

And she was only human.

Clara smiles innocently. "I tripped," she says sweetly, and the Doctor's green eyes narrow from behind the locks of wet hair plastered to his face.

"Then why didn't _you_ fall in, as well?"

"Um, you broke my fall?"

He makes a noise of exasperation and climbs out of the shallow pool, taking her shawl and wiping his eyes with it. "I have never understood you less," he says darkly, but she merely smiles and takes his hand, following him into an antechamber of the baths.

Two of the board members and three archeologists had met them earlier, and, after a round of pleasantries, they had given the Doctor a small digging toolkit and a report on some of the artefacts that had been unearthed. The real puzzle, they'd said, was why so many of the ancient Roman belongings had seemed to be covered in a strange residue. It was like nothing any of the other archeologists had ever seen, and they'd been hoping that the Doctor would be able to determine its origins.

They'd only gotten as far as the large outdoor bath itself before Clara had provided a small, thoroughly wet, detour.

"Sorry," she tells him, handing him back his coat, and knowing that her eyes give away the fact that she's anything _but _sorry. At least there's one more thing she can cross off her bucket list.

"I am trying to be scientific, here," he admonishes her. "You remember what Reverend Austen said about the odd things happening. That means possible forces of a weirdy, alien-y nature at work."

She leans in close. "Yeah, I hate to break this to you, but _you're_ an alien with a weird nature that's at work."

"Oi, you, just… just let me concentrate. No more shoving me into hot water. Literally."

"You're the one who said I was taking the fun out of things. This is me putting it back."

The Doctor makes a "hmph" noise at her, then wrings out the ends of his shirt, before tucking them back into his trousers. "Come on, I want to see this residue they're talking about. And since I don't have the sonic, I have to use the dull senses in this human head instead."

He's already walking along the walls of the antechamber, which is thrown in shadowy relief with the sun only partially creeping through. "I mean, whatever the stuff is, it might even be sentient and…" He stops suddenly, and his face turns to hers.

In an instant, all the mirth from a moment ago is gone, because Clara knows that look on his face all too well. It's the look that usually precedes the phrase _run for your life_.

* * *

_Not good. Not good. Not good.._

"Amorphus insectavorus," he murmurs, reaching down and pressing his nose a few inches from the residue that's coating the lower wall. He takes a whiff and frowns, because his senses are limited by the human body. But even so, he recognizes the scent immediately. It's them.

"I do hope that's Roman for 'we come in peace'".

"Not quite," the Doctor says, taking a brush from the toolkit and sweeping up some of the residue, studying it up close. "This is morphic residue. It gets left behind when certain species genetically re-encode."

She peers at it. "And I'm guessing you're not talking about human species?"

But he's already back on the floor, checking to see how much there is. "This stuff was made by a Vespiform."

"Oh, well," Clara says briskly, "All in a day's work. So what's a Vespiform and, more importantly, what do we need to defend ourselves against it?"

"Giant flyswatter," he quips, and sighs at her look of confusion. "Vespiforms are giant wasps."

She tries to smile hopefully. "_Friendly_ giant wasps, by any chance?" His lips purse and she visibly deflates. "Of course not," she says. "Because even in my fantasy, there have to be monsters chasing us. Of _course_ there are!"

"Well, they're not always _un_friendly. Some of them seem to get along with humans," he tries, and decides not to add "and have even bred with humans_"_ because Clara is probably better off without that tidbit of information. "The bigger question," he continues, "is what made them decide to come here of all places. Because this residue isn't old at all. It's recent. As in only a few weeks or even days."

"Doubt they just wanted a little swim," Clara says, and the Doctor remembers the last time he met with a Vespiform, when he and Donna Noble had discovered that the only way to stop it had been to drown it.

"Good guess, that," he says nodding, scratching his head. "I'm missing something, I can feel it." He twirls his hands, one over the other, as though whirling the air around him can jumpstart his memory. And it's then that he picks it up, light on the breeze, almost impercetible but definitely there. "Oh!" he whispers, then louder, laughing, "Oh, no wonder!"

"Doctor?"

"Oh, you clever, clever little bees!" He turns to Clara, who's frowning at him, and he instantly thinks that he rather loves the way her face wrinkles up when she's confused, and then hurriedly files that thought away because there's work to do and… "They're not here for the water," he says quickly. "They're here for this!" He points to the ground.

She looks down where he's pointing. "The floor?"

"Not the floor! What's _underneath_ the floor! What's actually causing the hot springs in the first place!" he says, grabbing her hand and running along the floor, pointing along the way. "Didn't you ever think it was odd that there's only one natural hot spring in all of England?"

She shakes her head, and the Doctor frowns. "You didn't?" He waves and continues rapidly, "Oh well, it doesn't matter, because the fact is that it isn't natural at all. It's caused by a massive pool of psychic energy, _all_ the psychic energy of the whole country, carried underneath the surface of the earth in what you would call ley lines, and converging _here_, right here, directly underneath where we're standing. That's what causes the water to be so hot, and what gives it all its unusual properties, healing, inspiration, all the myths that surround the place."

Clara stares at him, then looks out at the steaming water. "You mean, all that is really…."

"A big psychic soup!" he says delightedly. "I can't believe I didn't notice it when you shoved me in." He purses his lips. "Probably because _you shoved me in_."

She smiles unabashedly at him. "So, so worth it."

He rolls his eyes. "Anyway, Vespiforms are attracted to psychic energy like… well, like bees to honey, really, and….._oh!_ Oh, Clara!" He's almost hopping, because it's just hit him.

"What? What's wrong?" she's crying in alarm, but he can hardly stay still, he's actually bouncing.

"I _did_ get my dream!" he cries gleefully. "I'm not just a curator, I'm a bee-keeper!"

_And you're married to Clara_, says a voice in his head. _The one dream you didn't know you wanted, did you, old man?_

The smile evaporates from his face as he realizes. He's getting his dream, right here, right now. With Clara. And he's not sure if it's elation or terror that he's suddenly feeling.

But if she saw his sudden change, she doesn't show it, because she's looking at the residue on the floor, her hands on her hips.

"Well, that's all lovely," she says, and his brain whirs. Does she think it's lovely? Does she even have any idea of what's been going through his head for the last twenty-four hours, of how much she means to him, how much he wanted to touch her even before he got stuck in this human body with its hormones that seems to make that desire a million times worse?

"But, Doctor," she continues, completely unaware of the war going on inside his mind, "if these Vespiform things are running around Bath, wouldn't people notice them? I mean, a giant wasp, that's not something you just forget."

And finally she gives him a puzzle he can solve, something to take his mind off of a retired life with Clara by his side, and everything that might entail. Next to that, Vespiforms are so easy, he almost laughs.

He grabs at the chance, and nods. "Well, they wouldn't notice because Vespiforms can change their appearance to look entirely human. That's what makes the residue."

Clara's eyes widen. "So… we just need to look for humans who act like giant wasps?"

He'd been spinning as she spoke, looking again at the floor, because he knew something still hadn't quite clicked. But at her words, the pieces fall into place. "No, that's just it. They won't act like giant wasps. They'll act like…" his eyes dart around the antechamber, "…like _Romans_."

And now it's his own eyes that are round, as he realizes. "Vespiforms absorb psychic energy, and if this is where they transformed, than it's the energy of this place that's going to define them. They may be walking around Bath looking like typical people, but they're going to be acting like the most violent, blood-thirsty conquering Romans who first built this place."

He glances at her, his mouth working with concern, and sees Clara bite her bottom lip. "Great. So our big fantasy is to be eaten by giant wasps that act like gladiators, that's what you're telling me. I am so writing the strongly-worded letter to that restaurant."

He gives her a grimace. "Well, I rather doubt they saw this one coming, to be fair."

"It's you. Everyone should _always_ see this coming."

His hands fly to his hips. "It's not like I sent engraved invitations to the Silfrax Galaxy inviting the Vespiforms to pop over, now did I?"

"Alright, alright," Clara says, holding up her hand. "So what do we do, then? We can't just leave bloody great wasps to roam around Bath."

"No, we can't do that. But I have a feeling they might find us before we find them. We've got to be leaking quite a lot of psychic energy from the mind-transfer."

Clara nods, then clears her throat. "And um, just how big would you say these things are again?"

The Doctor thinks of Donna Noble and smiles. "Flippin' enormous."

"Uh-huh." But before she can start to panic, he's beside her.

"Hey, now, we just saved an entire planet from destruction in the Time War. An overgrown bug? We can knock that out before tea time."

"If you say so."

And before he can stop himself, he pulls her hand to his lips, and kisses it. "I do say so. Listen to your Doctor."

"And what are you going to tell the others about what all this goopy stuff is?"

He waves airily. "Oh, that? Well, I'll just make up something," he says. "And I'll talk fast, that usually helps."

He grins and squeezes her hand, because really, fooling humans has never been all that difficult. They have a remarkable tendency to believe the things they desperately _want_ to believe.

But as he looks down and notices that his own hand is tenderly caressing the small one of Clara Oswald, he realizes something else. When it comes to fooling oneself, he's really not so different from humans.

If anything, he might be much, much worse.

* * *

_to be continued..._


	10. Mains, part 5

**A/N: Two posted chapters in three days. See, I told you I was faster than Santa Claus. **

**Also, I think it's only fair to warn you that **the situation is this: This chapter is about as far as I've gotten before hitting a wall. Because I've got so much going through my head since the finale that I'm not entirely sure where I now want to take this story. I started out writing it as fun Whoffle fluff, but as Series 8's episodes unfolded, I think Moffat's darkness theme infiltrated my head a bit. Anyway, it may take awhile for the next chapter to get posted, just because I have too many angsty feels and whatnot rattling in my brain, and they need to get sorted first. But I'll do my best. :-)**  
**

**Hope you enjoy!**

* * *

MAINS, part 5

* * *

"Clara, you've got to be quiet, I'm concentrating!" he says, and she sighs loudly.

"You know, there's a chance that your human teeth aren't going to be as impenetrable to sugar as your Time Lord ones," she tells him, watching the expression of unabashed glee on his face, as he digs through the bag of sweets he simply _had_ to buy when they'd discovered the shop around the corner from the Roman baths.

"Hold on, I think I've found one that tastes like custard," he says, popping another candy in his mouth, as they stroll down the street.

"We're supposed to be finding the Vespiform!" she says, even though it's hard to argue with him when he's almost floating with happiness.

He slurps up another candy, waving nonchalantly. "The shop was on the way back to the Inn," he says defensively. "And fighting monsters takes energy."

She shakes her head, and tries, unsuccessfully, not to find this endearing. How can he be such a child, wrapped in the soul of a brilliant old man, squeezed into a body that's hard and tight and….

"Couldn't we have actual food?" she asks, clearing her throat, snapping herself out of the reverie. "The kind with nutrients?"

He's swinging her hand, almost skipping, completely ignoring the stares of the reserved Georgians glancing furtively at the pair of them, and it takes everything she has not to laugh out loud because _this_ is what she loves. Not the time-travel, the monsters, the wonders, but just this: strolling down the street, happily swinging arms with the man she….

_Can't have._

That's what he is, and that's what she has to never forget.

"You can have anything you want, Clara Oswald," he says happily, "Anything at all."

She smiles at him, while her heart breaks in two.

* * *

He loves to see her smile. It's right up there with his top five wonders of the Universe. In fact, he thinks how amazing it is that his favorite wonders have increasingly had something to do with Clara, as though the mysteries of her mind, and all the the things he wants to show her, imagining all the ways she might react, are the most intriguing adventure he's ever faced.

He sees her glancing at a family walking towards them, a father and mother, followed by their children, like dutiful little ducklings. The family nods at him and Clara, and the Doctor tips his hat in return, smiling at them. But out of the corner of his eye, he can see that Clara isn't really smiling anymore. She's glancing back at the little family, and then turning back to him with eyes that are overly bright.

"So. Know any place we can get cheesy chips?" she asks, a bit too cheerfully.

He feels his breath come faster, and it's that unpleasant sensation of falling all over again. He holds tighter to her hand, barely aware he's doing it.

"We're almost back to the Inn," he says, for the street has now given way to the green patches of the park alongside them. "We can get something there."

She nods, taking his arm and walking with him again, but the mood is different. And he knows she feels it, too. She's not thinking about cheesy chips. She's thinking about the one thing she'll never have as long as she keeps traveling the stars.

It's the thought that paralyzes him with fear, that this is why she'll leave him in the end. It doesn't matter how clever he is, how brilliant, or even the fact that he can lay all of time and space at her feet. Those aren't the things that his Clara wants. What she wants is what's just passed them on the street, something that he had never, ever considered wanting for himself again.

He'd had it once, so long ago it sometimes seems like the memory of a dream. But if it had been a dream then it wouldn't burn so much to remember. He'd had what she wants on Gallifrey, where he'd held his child in his arms, where he'd held his wife, and one day, where he'd watched Susan toddle through the red fields, laughing and reaching for her grandfather's hand.

Love. Life. _Family_.

They were all gone now, along with a piece of his soul. It was the only adventure he had promised himself he would never again pursue, because to chase it again without his hearts breaking would have been unequivocally impossible.

He lets himself glance at Clara, and sucks in a breath with the force of what he feels for her. Clara, who understands the weariness of his soul, because she's watched him live it, all twelve centuries of it, who has seen him at his worst and still looks at him with kind, gentle eyes. Clara, who makes the impossible, possible again. That's what he'd told her. And it was exactly what she was. But more than that, she'd _made him believe_ anything was possible, almost from the moment he'd met her.

"Is it?" he says out loud, staring at her lovely face, daring to wonder.

"Is it what?" she asks, biting her lower lip.

"Is anything possible?" he says. "Is that what you want?" But she frowns at him, her brows knitted in confusion, and he knows he's making no sense but tells her anyway, "Because I could want it again with you. I could, Clara."

"Doctor, I don't know what you…" she's shaking her head, not understanding, but before she can get another word out, she's suddenly no longer at his side.

"Out of the way!" he hears the voice at the same time that he sees the flank of a horse inches from his face, as a group of three red-coated soldiers comes galloping between them, nearly knocking him off his feet.

He hears Clara shriek and when the horse moves past them, he sees she's fallen into a sodden bit of grass, covered in mud.

"Oi!" he shouts at the soldiers, rushing over to her. Automatically, he reaches for his sonic inside his breast pocket, curses when he remembers it isn't there. "Are you alright?" he asks, checking for broken fingers, toes.

"I'm fine," she assures him, a bit breathlessly. "Just… completely filthy," she says, holding up arms that are dripping in wet mud. "Guess karma got me for you and the baths," she tries to smile.

He shoots an outraged look at the soldiers, who stop to turn and see the image of Clara, now on her hands and knees, covered in wet, black earth. They're laughing. The bastards are _laughing_, and the Doctor suppresses the urge to pull out the flask of lemon-tea-whiskey, drink it on the spot then find the TARDIS and destroy them from space.

As if she senses it, Clara puts a delicate hand on his arm. "I'm fine, Doctor. Really, just help me up."

Since her voice is the only thing in all creation that can quiet his rage, he does as he's told. Gingerly, he puts his arms around her waist and lifts her up again, trying to brush some of the mud off of her, and only succeeding in getting it all over himself, as well.

By the time he looks up, the soldiers have gone in a trail of dust. He's still glaring at them, and in seconds, has thought of at least nine thousand ways he could slowly, painfully wipe the laughter right off of their ugly, arrogant faces.

* * *

"You poor dear," Mrs. Noyes is fussing over her, pushing Clara's muddy hair from her face.

It's an unexpectedly familiar feeling, she thinks, the sensation of motherly hands touching her skin, wiping away her aches and scrapes. She hadn't even realized how much she'd missed that. She smiles gratefully at the landlord's wife, who is still clucking over her.

"Some of these new soldiers who have come into town…," she says angrily. "If the King only knew."

"I'm alright," Clara tells her, setting down her mud-soaked shawl, just as two servants bring in a small copper tub, setting it by the fire and wrapping the dressing screen around it to keep it warm. "Oh, no, you really didn't need to send up a bath," Clara begins to protest, "the basin is fine."

But the older woman is waving her away, undoing the laces of Clara's muddy dress for her. "Nonsense, child. It's the least we can do. My husband wanted to send for a Doctor!"

Clara bites her lip to keep from smiling, and glances over at her own Doctor, sitting stony-faced in the corner. The sight makes the smile fall from her lips. She can't tell if he's furious or pensive or both.

"I've got a Doctor already," she says, and Mrs. Noyes sighs and hands her a damp towel.

"Well, don't you worry about the bath," she says decidedly. "We got it for our daughter, but she's visiting my sister in London." She gathers up some of the muddy towels, and smiles fondly at Clara. "You get some rest and those black eyes of yours will be shining again by morning."

Clara smiles back. She'd almost forgotten that she doesn't look like herself, not to anyone but the Doctor. She glances at him again, and frowns, because he hasn't moved. Still as a statue, she can almost hear his teeth grinding.

"I'll send up some food and tea for you both," Mrs. Noyes tells them, and slips out the door before Clara can thank her again.

Abruptly, the Doctor rises from his chair and moves over to the window, his hands shoved in his pockets, and Clara swallows, her eyes following him.

"You'd think I was just chased by a half-headed robot or a soul-eating planet," she tries to joke, but the Doctor remains silent, still staring out the window. She frowns and moves over to the tub, because maybe he's just trying to respect her privacy while she undresses for the bath. Maybe, but she wouldn't bet on it.

She slips behind the screen and pulls a few pins from her hair, since she can feel dried mud in some of the strands, too. Shrugging herself of her sleeves, she lets the now-loosened dress fall to the floor, so that she's standing in her shift. The air is chilly on her mud-spattered skin, so she quickly unrolls her stockings, slips out of her clothing and steps into the warm water, wishing the Doctor would say something. _Anything. _

* * *

There's so much to say, he thinks.

He knows he should be next to Clara, just to reassure her with his presence, but his brain won't stop whirring, a million possibilities in front of him. He knows the Vespiform are out there and that has to be dealt with. It's all the more imperative now that he knows they've got the minds and blood-lust of the very Romans who conquered Britain and….

He pauses, looking out the window, for he's just remembered something else. Not far from here, beneath the ground, standing vigil, is a Roman he knows very, very well.

Only a half-day's ride away, the Doctor realizes, Rory Williams is sitting beneath Stonehenge, waiting patiently for Amelia Pond to wake up again.

He glances down at the barn beside the Inn, connected by a small cobblestone courtyard. He could borrow a horse, be back again before morning. He could talk to Rory again, at least, Rory who has been alone for nearly two thousand years, fighting against silence and madness, sustained by a force greater than time- his unalterable love for his wife.

The Doctor frowns, looking again at the barn. He could go tonight, ask Rory if he wants the Doctor to come get him in the TARDIS once he's back in his own body, because it was something the Doctor didn't even bother asking the first time. But as soon as the thought forms in his mind, he knows the answer would be the same, the conversation pointless. Rory will never leave Amy.

And what can he say to the Last Centurion about his future, about why Rory and Amy no longer travel with him, about the fact that they had a daughter who grew up to be River Song, a woman who loved and died for the Doctor. Or that Rory and Amy would be taken by the Angels, and the Doctor would be powerless to save them, any of them from their fates. Rory would probably take his sword and run the Doctor through, and what's more, the Doctor wouldn't blame him.

He shakes his head in wonder at the quiet nurse from Leadworth, and, not for the first time, the Doctor lets his envy of Rory Williams wash over him. Not because he'd won Amy. That was how it was meant to be, he'd always known that.

But because in Rory, he'd been shown once again how gigantic humans are to his own puny species, seeing them capable of the kind of love that transcended every obstacle, the kind that kept Rory patiently sitting beside a gigantic, silent box, century after cruel century, because it held the sleeping love of his life inside. Time Lords, by the nature of their existence, hardly ever stood still or kept anything permanent, their lives always in a constant state of change and flux as they moved from regeneration to regeneration. And the Doctor was no different.

_Keep going, keep discovering, keep the adventure coming_, that was his mantra. Because he knew, from lifetimes of experience, that the pain only started when you stopped moving.

But that was precisely how humanity towered over him. He _fled_ from the pain of life, while Rory planted his feet in the ground where Amy was and endured it. Because humans put roots, not just into a place, but into each other, the kind that held on and didn't let go.

It's what he once said to Clara, he realizes. _The trick is to hold hands, and not let go._

He glances over, sees her silhouette behind the screen, backlit in the firelight, and swallows hard. He'd never thought it was in him to want to stop traveling, not once since leaving Gallifrey. When he'd had to stay with Amy and Rory for a brief spell, the Doctor had wondered how anyone living such a repetitive, boring existence didn't go insane within five seconds.

But now….

Now he feels the weight of his long life upon his shoulders. He's run for so long, and his soul is so old, and for the first time in centuries, he can imagine holding on to something, _someone_, that's not just fleeing in and out of his life. And not just any someone, but the _only_ someone he can ever imagine wanting so much that planet-hopping in the TARDIS actually seems less inviting than the prospect of sitting in her kitchen, watching her burn yet another souffle.

He feels himself grinning broadly, but just as quickly, the smile falls from his face, as he considers a defeating thought: just because he wants _her_ doesn't mean the feeling is reciprocated. And even if it is, it doesn't even mean that he's the best thing _for_ her.

He sees Clara's arms rise behind the screen, sees her plucking a pin out of her hair so that some tendrils fall down her back, and he feels his hands balling into fists as a wave of protectiveness surges through him. What could he even offer her, a dangerous existence tethered to his, instead of the comfort of steady, human arms and a different kind of immortality that came with the sound a child's laughter.

But then he hears her dress sliding to the floor, and her little sigh of contentment as she steps into the water, and he closes his eyes as all of his noble excuses fly out the window next to the insurmountable truth of his need for her, his mind-stabbing jealousy at the thought of any other man holding her in his arms.

No, it's not just need, nor even merely desire. Because, after everything that's happened over the last two days, he suddenly knows something else: the way Rory feels about Amy… it's the way he feels for Clara.

It's not because she's his first face, or because she's pretty and daring or even because he's grateful to her for all the times she's saved him. It's so much more, as if he was always destined to feel it, as though she'd been designed just for him, at the beginning of time, and he was just as surely made for her. What he feels for her is the simplest, most terrifying thing in the universe.

_He loves her. _ Without condition, without reason, and without any need except one- that she exist. She doesn't have to love him back, she doesn't have to be particularly kind to him, it wouldn't even matter if she betrayed him. All she has to do is keep breathing, and it's enough for him. He loves her.

_He loves her._

And he'll never leave her again.

* * *

Clara knows the bathing is probably supposed to be done standing, but the water is so warm, and somehow, the Doctor's silence makes the room feel chillier. And fortunately, she's small enough that she can bend her knees and fit her entire body in the tub. She does just that, letting the water nearly cover her, and pulling a sheet across her knees still sticking out of the water. The fire crackles beside her and she lets out a sigh, pushing her arms into the bath and trying to wash off the mud.

She just wishes he would speak. It's so unlike the Doctor to ever be this silent, and when it _has_ happened, it's never been because of something good. Her mind has managed to catalog so many of his actions with the corresponding emotion over the time she's run with him, and nearly every emotion inside of him usually meant movement. Happiness, fascination, even anger, they all meant the Doctor was _doing_ something, and also usually talking at top speed.

It had only ever been when he was still, and silent, that she could see the change in his eyes, the hard edges of his soul that should have unnerved her, but instead made her want to take him in her arms, stroke his hair as though she could caress the pain out of him.

She closes her eyes and wishes so much that she could do something to help him.

"Can I help?" she hears his voice behind the screen, and nearly jumps out of the tub with surprise.

"Oh!" she yelps, pulling the sheet higher to cover herself. "I didn't even hear you walk over."

Two green eyes peer around the corner of the screen and, even though she knows he can't see anything with the sheet covering her she feels a blush creeping up her cheeks.

"Um… sure," she says and when he comes fully into view, his tall body flickering shadows in the firelight, her heart speeds up. He's removed the muddy coat, and is standing only in his trousers and white shirt, open at the neck once more. Her eyes linger on his throat, a part of him that she rarely gets to see because of his penchant for wearing bow-ties, and yet the sight of which she's always found oddly erotic. His neck is long and muscular, and she's imagined running her lips across it so many times she's lost count. But as Clara's eyes travel up the contours of his neck, his jaw, and finally meet his eyes, his expression stills her.

His face is somber and set, as though he's about to tell her something she doesn't want to hear.

"May I?" he asks, picking up the sponge, and his voice is in that low, soft register, the one that sends her blood rushing.

She swallows. "Okay." She turns around and feels his hands sweeping the damp hair from her neck, and he dunks the sponge in the water, then runs it across the back of her shoulders. She closes her eyes, because the combination of the water and his hands is so wonderful that it makes her shiver.

The Doctor seems to sense it, too, because he takes the sponge and then runs it across the front of her neck where some mud is still stuck to her. His hands are unbearably tender, as though she was something precious that might break under his touch.

"Clara?"

"Y-yes?"

"You never answered my question."

She can't think. Nothing exists but his hands on her skin. "What question?"

"About what you want," he says, still stroking her lightly with the sponge. "I need you to tell me."

And Clara pulls the sheet more tightly around herself, because he's going somewhere she doesn't want to follow.

"Oh, you know," she counters lightly, "I want my students to behave so I can teach them something, my father's wife to not be such a harpy, my Gran to get together with that nice widower down the street, and… and… intergalactic harmony." She turns and smiles at him.

He isn't smiling back.

She shifts around. "Look, don't ask me that. We already covered this."

The Doctor moves like lightning in front of her, so that he's at her feet, gripping both sides of the tub. "When, exactly? When did we cover this?"

"At the restaurant. Or rather, in the ocean," she says pleadingly. "I told you what I wanted. To not get hurt."

"And I'm going to hurt you, is that it?"

"Yes," she pleads.

"And what makes you so sure, Clara?"

"Because…" she says fretfully, "because that's just what happens with you." _Oh, god, don't make me say this._

"But that doesn't mean it has to be that way this time," he says, and she can hear the urgent pleading in his voice because he wants to believe it, and yes, _yes_, how she would love to believe it with him.

But companions being hurt by the Doctor seems to be one of those fixed points in time that never alter, because its happened to all of them, just as it will happen to her. She's already envisioned it, the day when he'll drop her off at home, tell her he'll see her next Wednesday and never return. He doesn't know it, but she's already wondered, every single time that he's left her, if she'll ever see him again.

Every Wednesday, Clara has stepped off the TARDIS steeling herself with the possibility that he won't come back. It's why she lights up every time it's turned out not to be true.

But one day, it will be true. She'll hear the wheezing groan of his blue ship fading behind her, and it will be the last time. And she already knows what will happen then. The Clara Oswald that he met, ringing her doorbell and practically knocking down her door, the one whose whole happy life was ahead of her, will have finally faded away. Her hope, her innocence, they'll all have gone, and she'll be something else, a half-alive person who goes through the motions, wearing a mask of her old self to hide a heart that was so sure it couldn't break, but did in the end. She 'll have seen so much more than the 101 places her mother dreamed of seeing, gained knowledge of species and planets that NASA couldn't even begin to fathom, and yet none of it will matter anymore.

And the irony is, it won't be because she's been jaded by seeing the wonders of the universe. It will be because of the simplest, most earthly reason of all: she'll have lost the man she's chosen to love.

The day is coming when her heart is going to be broken, and as she lifts her eyes to the Doctor, seeing his face, so odd and yet so beautiful to her, so utterly loved, looking at her with such bewilderment and hurt, and the pain becomes so big that she wishes, for the briefest of seconds, that she'd never met him. And just as quickly, she takes it back because… oh, she can never wish that.

Even if it breaks her heart, nothing had ever made her feel so alive as loving this strange, wonderful man who stole her away and showed her the stars.

_I love you, Doctor_, she thinks. _And I'll still love you, even after the day comes when you leave me._

"It will," she whispers to him as he holds on to her in the bath. "It's coming and we both know it."

But somehow this only seems to inflame him, as though he's trying to convince her that the earth is square instead of round.

"And how are you so sure? What makes you so all-knowing, Clara, that you're _sure_ that's what will happen?" he demands, his voice rising.

"Because what I want is something I can't have!"

"But just tell me what you want and I'll get it for you!"

"I want _you_!" she yells, her body quaking. Then, so quiet it's a whisper, "You."

* * *

to be continued...


	11. Mains, part 6

**A/N: The Christmas preview has officially killed me. But this chapter has bitch-slapped me around long enough, so away we go.**

**Hope you all enjoy, my petals, and a TREMENDOUS thank you to those leaving such sweet reviews. You guys are seriously awesome, and your lovely, lovely feedback is absolutely what keeps me going with this story!**

* * *

MAINS, part 6

* * *

He stares at her a long, long while. "You already have me."

And it's because she knows he believes it that Clara's eyes close, willing back tears.

"I only have you for a moment," she replies. "Just like all the others, it's _only for a moment_."

She hears him shift in front of her, because this is the part he never likes to think about, that compared to the long life he'll have, his companions are only a speck in his existence. And one day he'll no longer be her Doctor, because she'll be too old to run with him, and he'll have flown away and belong to someone else.

Clara opens her eyes, because he has to accept it. He _has_ to. "Don't you think I've known from the very first day we met," she whispers, "that I'd never get to _keep_ you?"

His eyes snap up, and she can see hurt written all over him. She wishes she could sink under the water, hiding from his gaze. Instead, she quickly stands in the tub, pulling the sheet with her to cover herself, and steps out, moving behind him and reaching hastily for the dressing gown hanging over the screen.

She pulls on the gown, wrapping it tightly around her dripping body, knowing he hasn't even moved. If she can just make it to the bed, she can slip beneath the covers and pretend none of this happened.

"Then why did you come with me?" he asks, and she freezes at his voice. She can feel his eyes on her, scanning her, his brain whirring as he puts the puzzle together. And for once, she wishes that the Doctor wasn't so frighteningly observant.

She hears him stand and walk over, can feel his body behind hers, heat radiating off of him and sending shivers up her still-damp skin. Warm, gentle hands wrap around her shoulders, turning her, making her face him.

She sighs, and finally tells him. "Because I couldn't say no," she says, her voice soft again. "And not to the idea of seeing all the wonders you promised me. I just…" she shrugs. "...just wanted to know _you_ more."

He stares at her, speechless, and a short, humourless laugh escapes Clara's lips, even while the tears really do begin to fall. "All that time you thought I was a mystery or some kind of magical girl, when the truth is I'm just ordinary, really. I've always been just a person who wants a job, and a home with a garden where I forget to water my plants, and children and a husband who makes me tea while I write out a cheque for the electric bill."

She hears him swallow. "I know, Clara."

Her throat is constricting, and she fights it, just as she fights the urge to stroke the side of his jaw. "And I want…" she says, as fresh tears roll down her cheeks, "...I want to able to look in my husband's eyes and know that I'm more than a footnote in his life, I'm his whole story, because he'll be mine."

She hears him suck in a breath, and the Doctor recoils as though she's slapped him. But it's the truth, and she has to get it all out now or she never will, even while the bruised, surprised expression in his eyes is absolutely killing her from the inside out. She has to tell him, she has to say the very worst thing that being with him has done to her. So she gulps down a lungful of air and confesses:

"You see, Doctor? It's why I didn't care about throwing myself into your time stream or what it might do to me. Because I want _you_ and I want this normal life and if I died saving you then _I'd never have to choose_…" She can't finish, because now she's crying so much that she can hardly form words.… "I'd n-never have to say...goodbye…." She chokes out, but no more words leave her, because suddenly his arms are around her, holding her tightly, and she clings back because she loves him so much that her life, once again, seems an inconsequential thing compared to it.

"Oh _Clara_," The Doctor says, whispering into her hair, and she feels his lips brush against the top of her head. He holds her a long while as the sobs wrack her, his arms never leaving her, and she clings to him until finally, her body stops shaking, her cries have turned to quiet sniffling.

"I'm sorry," she whispers. "I just needed you to know."

But he shushes her. "There's nothing to be sorry for," he whispers back, stroking her head as though she's a child who's just woken from a nightmare. Except she knows full well that this is a nightmare from which she'll never awaken, because she'll love him long after he's left her. "Although, actually, there is one thing you got wrong," he says finally.

"What's that?" she asks, still sniffling.

He murmurs the words against her skin. "Who ever said you had to choose?" he says, and Clara lifts her eyes to search his, frowning.

He's smiling at her, in that all-too-familiar way that says _I'm the Doctor, and I know everything, and you, human, have once again missed the obvious_.

She shakes her head. "Doctor, you know that…."

"I can want ordinary things, too," he says, pulling back, grasping her by the shoulders so that he can hold her gaze with his own. "I already do. Don't you remember? Curating, bee-keeping, watercolors?"

She makes a grimace, wishing it were true, knowing it's not. "That was just daydreaming, that's not real."

The Doctor gives her an amused smile. "And you just said that sentence from within a reality that we're _in_ because of our dreams."

She scoffs. "But those things… they're not _you_."

"Why can't they be me?"

"Because…" she sputters, gesturing at him. "You _hate_ normal."

His eyebrows raise. "What makes you think you're normal?" he asks, but Clara shakes her head, pulling the dressing gown tighter around herself, shielding her body, her mind, her certainty that this can only end one way and that's with her heart broken.

"Doctor, don't joke. You wouldn't last five minutes in a regular life with a.. a bunch of mortgage payments and a job."

He lifts a hand and his thumb, warm and pliant, strokes the spot on her cheek where her tears are still smudged. "I'm not joking at all," he says, his voice low and soft, and when she sees his eyes, it's almost enough to make her believe it. "And secondly, I _have_ a job already, one that's more dangerous than traveling in the TARDIS, if we're going to be technical."

"What? What job?" she asks, brows knitting, because she's fairly certain she would have remembered a detail like this.

The Doctor rolls his eyes. "You lot _never_ listen, do you?" he sighs. "I _told_ you I have a job with UNIT. Had it for years, and now it even comes with a desk," he reminds her, smiling, then adds, "Also, they probably owe me decades of back pay seeing as how I never took a salary, so I bet I wouldn't even _need_ to take out a mortgage."

She stares at him, incredulous "You can't be serious. You… living on earth. With a job."

"Why not? Not that much different from what I already do, really." His shoulders shrug slightly. "I spend so much time on Earth as it is that I get mail forwarded here," he says, and her eyes widen.

"You do?"

"'Course I do. Everyone has to have a place for their mail," he says, frowning at her. "And as for the job," he stops and suddenly smiles, glancing upwards as though the more he thinks about it, the more it appeals to him. "I rather like the idea of staying in one spot for a while, protecting people from harm, protecting _you_. Never done that before, so it'll be a whole new adventure, eh?"

She's blinking at him in disbelief, when he blurts out, "Ha! You know the best bit, UNIT can't even fire me. I've got tenure by Royal Edict," he says, looking smug. And suddenly, another grin splits his face as he snaps his fingers. "I bet they even have a department football league!" he cries. "Oooh, that would be _brilliant_!"

He captures her hands in his, and brings them to his lips. "See? Ordinary things. Easier than rolling off a Thalaxian log, which, you know," he says, shaking a finger in the air, "they only _look_ like logs, they're actually a carnivorous water reptile, and frankly, I don't know who started the tradition of rolling off of them, they don't like it and it's very uncomfortable."

Clara can only gape at him.

"Right. I mean, why not?" she says, her voice flat. "You'll work for UNIT and join their football league and we'll get a cottage in the Lake District and have scones every Sunday."

"_Excellent_ idea. It's lovely there." He's beaming at her. "Now, see? Was that so hard?"

He's serious. He's actually serious. He's talking like he's just decided to take up knitting instead of changing his entire life. And she can't even begin to imagine what in the world could have made him even _want_ to give up full-time life in the TARDIS.

She tries once more. "Paying taxes, doing laundry, fixing the toaster…"

"Tax-exempt on account of really _really_ alien status," he interrupts, "TARDIS has a built-in dry cleaner and the sonic could fix a toaster without me even trying." And even while his voice is light, she can't help but notice that he's holding her tighter than ever, his fingers having moved to her elbows, where they're curled possessively around her.

This is unreal, she thinks. She's dreaming inside of a dream, because the Doctor is not seriously suggesting…

"Wait, the TARDIS has a _dry-cleaner_?"

"Of course," he says, sticking out his chin with pride for his ship. "Time winds. Doubles as an oven."

She shakes her head, because now she knows he's got to be joking. Except he's not. She stares at him, searching his face, the green eyes and the impish boy's smile and she sees the truth written all over him.

He means every word. So she asks the only thing she can.

"But why? _Why_ would you do all this?"

The Doctor's brows furrow with shocked surprise, and now it's he who stares at her. Until at last his eyes soften, gazing into hers with such tenderness that she thinks she'll melt where she's standing.

"Don't you know?" He shakes his head slightly, almost laughing, his hands leaving her elbows to slide around her waist. "How can you have seen everything about me and not have noticed _this_?"

She frowns, utterly lost, and he pulls her closer so that she's pressed against his chest, the damp dressing gown clinging to her so that it almost feels like she's naked in his arms.

"Clara Oswald, how can you possibly not know that I would do anything for you?" His hand reaches up to cup the side of her face, but she couldn't have looked away if she tried. "And would you like to know why? For the most _wondrously ordinary_ reason in the universe," he tells her, "...because I love you."

* * *

His hearts are flying in his chest.

The truth is that he's said those words such a precious few times in his long, long life. They've always been words that terrified him, in a way, because to give them to someone meant giving them power over him. But then, Clara has _always_ had power over him, probably more so than any other companion, and it had happened almost without him noticing. He'd called other companions "Boss" before, always jokingly. With Clara, it was alarmingly literal.

The irony is that he's not even alarmed by it anymore, and can barely bring himself to care about who's in charge. He may be the smartest being on the planet, but Clara Oswald is the kindest, and as far as he's concerned, she can rule him until the end of his existence and he'll die a happy man.

"_You love me_?" she whispers back, as though he'd said it in Gallifreyan and she just hadn't heard it properly

He smiles, because even saying it out loud makes him want to pick her up and twirl her around the room, giddy with happiness. But her eyes are still as round and confused as if he'd just said he'd decided to rob a bank instead of love her, so he sighs, and tucks the damp tendrils of hair behind her ear.

"You think it's just you that's been afraid of what will happen in the future?" he says, because the only way to make her believe it is to make her understand how she's changed him. "Clara, don't you know why I was so upset when you told me about Trenzalore that morning, when Artie and Angie had tricked me into playing blind man's bluff?"

Her dark eyes find his. "I guess because you didn't want to die."

"No. Because you'd just told me that the future I was hoping to have was about to be snatched away from me. A future," he says, running his fingers across the delicate bones of her hand, "with you."

Her eyes grow round again. "Me?"

"Yes," he says, nodding, staring down at the spot where he's rubbing her hand. "I was planning to ask you to stay with me on the TARDIS, not just once a week but _every_ day. So I wouldn't have to jump from Wednesday to Wednesday because I hated being apart from you."

He glances up, his hearts beating frantically in his chest as though he was facing a fleet of Cyberman rather than a tiny human woman. Even soaking wet, her eyes red from crying, she is so incomparably beautiful that his breath stops. "Because even then I was starting to understand what you meant to me."

And yet when he looks at her, he can see it immediately. She doesn't believe him. It's written in her eyes. "Doctor…"

But he stops her, squeezing her hand. Nothing is more important than making Clara see this truth, of how she is so much more than his companion. She's _the_ companion, the last one he'll ever want, and she has to _know_.

"Clara, you were never just a person I ran with. From the beginning, you've been this person I couldn't help running _towards_." His fingers lift again, finding the outline of her face as he memorizes every detail and remembers how he hadn't been able to stop being drawn to her, from the moment he'd first set eyes on her. Even before then. He'd actually flirted with her when she'd been in the body of his mortal enemy. _He'd flirted with a Dalek_, because she was Clara. It makes him want to laugh out loud at the absurd truth that _that_ was what Clara did to him, the kind of power she had over him, and how his feelings for her overcame every instinct.

And she thought she was just an ordinary girl.

"I'll always want to be wherever you are," he says simply, and realizes how true it is even as the words leave his mouth. "You tell me you want a house with dead plants in the garden, I know just the planet that's teeming with plants that look dead when they're actually in full bloom, you can have your pick. If you don't want me to work at UNIT, then I'll work where you work. I already know my way around Coal Hill. See, it's _not_ impossible. You only have to tell me what you want."

But she merely stares at him, her huge eyes pleading. "But I.." she whispers again, and he can still see the doubt in her face. She's still afraid to believe, despite everything he's told her. And she confirms it when she says, "I don't want you to change who you are for me."

He can't help but smile, because, really, that's Clara all over. Even wanting him, even when he was offering himself to her on a platter, she couldn't put herself first. She not only didn't walk away from the people she loved, she wouldn't let them walk away from _themselves_, either.

"But you've _already_ changed me," he insists, wrapping his hands around her upper arms. He's amazed she can't see it. Has she forgotten what she did for him already? How she's been imprinted on every version of himself? And the man he is now, he couldn't have kept away from Clara Oswald even if he tried. And, in fact, he _had_ tried. That's what makes her idea that he could ever walk away from her all the more ironic.

"You could never be just a footnote, Clara," he says, and wipes away another strand of wet hair from her cheek, unable to help touching her. As always. "You're how my story ends."

Her head tilts to one side, and she gives him a gentle sort of smile, one that doesn't reach her eyes. "But you _don't_ end, not like the rest of us. You said it yourself. _I can regenerate, companions can't_."

He sighs. "Yes, probably should have rephrased that," he says. "I _could_ regenerate. I can't anymore. This is my last life."

And suddenly she frowns at him, staring in disbelief, and she's shaking her head in a way that makes him love her even more. As much as she wants him to be hers, she's horrified at the thought that he might die and not come back to life again. The thought warms him, even as it makes him want to sweep her into his arms and kiss every inch of her.

"No," Clara breathes, "no, you can't die."

The Doctor smiles back at her. "Twelve regenerations, that's the rule. This is the last me that will ever exist."

He sees her turn away, unable to comprehend it, not wanting to believe it. But there's something more important, so much more crucial that he needs her to understand, so he gently takes her arm, and pulls her back to face him.

"Clara, don't you think there was a reason why this version of me was drawn to you, when all the others barely noticed you were there?" She shakes her head, and he takes a deep breath. "It's because this me was made for this you," he says, staring into her eyes, willing her to see how true it is. "You know we call it a regeneration, but it's really not that at all. If all we did was _repair_, then I'd still look about seventy years old with long white hair, and the last thing I'd want to do is wear fezzes and eat jammie dodgers, believe me." He runs a thumb across her chin. "And I definitely wouldn't want to do any cartwheels."

She squeezes her eyes shut, almost as though it's paining her to hear it, but she has to. She _must._ So he continues.

"Every time I've changed, I've become someone new, someone unique. And this me was so lost, always bouncing from place to place and person to person, trying to figure out how to make this last life of mine _count_ for something, to become a man that was more than all the ones I'd been, because I had _so much to make up for._ And I never found those things...until I met you."

Clara's dark, lovely eyes open again, and he almost laughs at how much he never gets tired of looking at them, trying to peer inside the soul of this magnificent human woman and make himself worthy of her.

"From the start, you changed me," he whispers. "You, and no one else, turned me into the Doctor I never thought I could be again. You turned my past from being my worst nightmare into my greatest hope. Clara, you are the _best_ part of the man I am now. Because you're the one this me was always meant to love."

* * *

Clara's heart is hammering so loudly that she thinks he must know already what his words are doing to her. She lets her gaze drop as his voice washes over her, because it's too much, _too much._

The door in her heart pushes against her chest, struggling to open.

"Clara," she hears him say, his fingers, sliding, tightening around her hips, as though he can't hold her close enough, and just the sound of him saying her name pushes her closer to the edge, where its now only the weight of his breath or the thrumming of his hearts that will open that door, and release what she knows is behind it. Of course she knows.

"Look at me," she hears him whisper, and she can't help but obey. She lifts her eyes to meet his, and he says softly, echoing words as though from a lifetime ago. "Trust me, this is real. I'm real."

_Oh, god, don't_, she thinks. Because the way he's looking at her, the way his voice is so sure and full of promise, she can sense it already, the door cracking open, and every sweet feeling of bliss that he'd ever made her feel is rushing out, swirling around her like a tornado, shaking loose her armor.

Her face is in his hands, and her tears are running down over his fingers, as he whispers, "_This_ is how I love you, Clara. You're the ending to my story because I've lived long enough for myself, and now I live for you. And I'll follow you into any life that makes you happy. I would follow you into the depths of Hell if you asked me to."

She pushes back against her own mind, sure that if she doesn't stop, she'll break under the weight of everything he's making her feel. She can't let herself…. (he moves a hand to stroke her cheek again)… She can't….(his fingers trace down her neck)… oh, god, she loves him _so much_…,(down her shoulders and arm until his fingers lace in hers)... could she ever even stop? She feels new tears spring to her eyes as she stares at him, this unreal man who has become the most solid thing in her universe... (he's leaning down and it can't be happening)… and he's real, she's not imagining it, he's _real_, hard muscle against her (he's supposed to leave her, to fly off without her, but he isn't, he's here and he isn't stopping)… and for one last fleeting moment she wonders if it's truly happening when the Doctor cups her head in one hand, leans in, and kisses her like he's been waiting for it his whole, long life.

Sparks erupt from where his lips meet hers, spiraling all the way to her fingertips, and a rushing sound fills her ears. The tornado is real, only now it's inside her, consuming her. His hands curl against her hips again and she melts, then soars, and then feels herself go limp in his arms, because that one light kiss from him has brought the door in her heart crashing down, releasing a torrent that carries her away. She almost cries against him as his mouth moves softly over hers, and she hears him say. "Wanted you like this from the beginning."

She knows now what he's done. He's opened the floodgates, and there's no going back. She's his, finally, completely his. And she loves him so much she thinks she'll break apart, into a million pieces all over again, with the sheer force of it.

Her hand reaches up, stroking along his jawline. "Tell me again," she whispers, and his eyes finally rise to meet hers.

"_I'm yours_, Clara," he says, and she closes her eyes, because, somehow, it was even more important than hearing 'I love you'. And she knows he understands.

"Again," she gasps.

"Always…." he nearly growls, his voice is so low as his head dips and lips and teeth graze her throat,"...and forever…. _yours_."

Her eyes squeeze shut again only this time it's from happiness so big she's afraid it isn't real. She wants to laugh out loud, breathe in great gulps of air so that she can shout to the stars how much she loves this man with his two hearts and his boyish smile who's just changed her life, far more than he ever did when he walked her on to the TARDIS.

"So the only question now is…" he asks, his mouth sliding away, removing the glorious pressure away from her skin so that she wants to whimper, "...are you mine, as well?"

Her head snaps up, and she's staring at him as though he really has lost his mind. "_Am I yours?_" she breathes, and her jaw wants to drop, but then she thinks of a much better use for it.

Instead, she flings her arms around him, and crashes her mouth to his, and this time it's her kissing _him_, at long, long last, letting the flood of every sweet wish coming true carry her away.

She hears him instantly groan into her mouth, wrapping his own arms around her, and the force of it, of his solid muscles against her soft, still-wet body makes her almost dizzy with love and need and everything she's wanted for so, _so_ long. But it's still almost nothing compared to what she needs him to know, too, because it's true, it's always been true.

"I am _so yours_, Doctor," she whispers, kissing his cheeks, his jaw, his nose and chin, anywhere she can reach.

She's his, completely, entirely. And the word _forever_ has just gone from the most hated to the most beautiful three syllables in the whole universe.

* * *

to be continued...


	12. Mains, part 7

**A/N:**

**1\. Mountains of thanks to everyone leaving reviews. If you want to know how to motivate your author to keep writing, I don't have to tell you, because you already know! Thank you all so very, very much!**

**2\. Okay, people, this is it. The Big M chapter. And may I just add, writing M material is my white whale. It terrifies me every time. Especially when writing for a character who is more likely to be found jumping on a bouncy castle than he would be doing...um. adult-y things, if you know what I mean. Very hard to keep things in character, and all that. But what the hey, it's the holidays, so why not go a little nuts, right?**

**Also, if you think I'm stalling, you're right. I'm using up space so that I can most emphatically declare:**

**IF YOU ARE UNDER 18, PLEASE SKIP TO THE NEXT CHAPTER BECAUSE DID I MENTION THIS CHAPTER IS RATED M!**

**Seriously.**

**I will tell your mother.**

**Okay, now that that's out of the way...**

**Enjoy!...**

* * *

MAINS, part 7

* * *

She can't think, but it doesn't matter, anymore, because he's here and he loves her and this, right here, is her dream coming true.

Clara reaches up, tilting her head so that he can find her lips again, kissing him with abandon, not even caring if this all turns out to be some colossal joke where he whips out a fez, plops it on his head and cries, "Fooled you!" Right now, she doesn't care if he breaks her heart so long as she can have this moment with him.

_Please, _she thinks_. Please give me this. Just once._

And that's when she begins to think that the Doctor's telepathy has switched back on. Because his eyes instantly grow dark with arousal, a slow, predatory smile spreads across his mouth, and she sees that expression again, the one he'd had when he'd seen her almost naked in the ocean, the one that says: _Mine_.

His hands move to her shoulders, holding her still, and he's peering into her face, studying every flutter of her lashes, searching.

"Yes," she tells him, as if he really is reading her mind, or she's reading his. "Yours."

And then she sees his eyes change again. Something seems to explode inside him, from every particle, as though he's afraid to believe what he's seeing.

She almost hears the rush of air as he nearly falls on her, kissing her with so much passion she thinks she might faint. He's ripping open the tie on her dressing gown, smothering her with his mouth, kissing her cheeks, her throat, her forehead, his hands tangled in her hair, and Clara can barely understand what he's saying. "Wanted you, Clara...for so long…"

She wraps her arms around him, sighing beneath his roving hands on her naked skin, and hears him groan with pleasure. He lifts her off of the settee with ease, and Clara moans at the feel of him, hard inside his trousers, brushing against her stomach.

Gently, he lays her on the creaking brass bed, her dressing gown falling open and exposing her to his gaze, and when he steps back, his eyes slide down her body as though he's not even in control of them, and she sees him swallow hard, his chest moving up and down as though he can't catch his breath.

He stares at her for what feels like an eternity, she wants to whimper because doesn't he know she's burning up inside?

"Are you sure?" he asks, as though it's costing him his soul to say the words.

No, she isn't sure. Because even if it's his last life, he'll still outlive her by eons, and there's still a chance that she's diving headfirst into a world of heartache when they get back to the Restaurant and cold reality sets in. And the TARDIS beckons him more than a job at UNIT ever could. But right now, she doesn't give a damn.

"I'm sure," she nods solemnly, because if it costs her her _own_ soul, there's no way she's going to stop now.

But the Doctor simply continues to stare at her, his chest breathing heavily, the rest of him frozen to the floor.

She bites her lip. "Is something wrong?"

"No," the Doctor says, his voice soft, "I'm just afraid I'm going to wake up."

Clara feels a smile spread across her face. "Come here," she orders him.

Another whoosh of air nearly sends the curtains fluttering because before she can blink the Doctor is on top of her, kissing her cheeks, her arms, elbows, even her knees, shrugging her entirely out of the dressing gown.

"I'll never drink lemon tea again," she laughs, her eyes closed, "if it keeps us here."

His head pops up, and she sees that he's grinning, too. "I take it this is okay, then?" he asks, and she wants to laugh again, because oh, he's so, so more than okay.

He's beautiful and warm and alive. And hard. She can feel his erection through his trousers, and even the thought of it makes her insides quiver. He's hard for her. She blinks stupidly.

"Wait, not okay," she says suddenly. "I'm naked and you're not. You need to be more… naked."

This would ordinarily be the kind of sentence that should send the Doctor screaming from the room, while his face turns four shades of scarlet. Except that's not at all what he's doing. Instead, may heaven bless him until the end of time, he's smiling even more broadly, and pulling off his shirt, so that he's bare-chested and beautiful as he rolls back towards her.

"I imagined you like this so often," he says, leaning down to kiss her throat and making flesh erupt with little sparks. "Even when I tried not to."

Her head falls back and she can barely think. He'd imagined _her_?

"Wha… when?" She gasps as his hand slides up and wrapped around her breast, his palms flattening over her hardening nipple. Reflexively, she arches her back into his hand, and hears him groan as her hips grind against his erection.

"Doesn't matter, now," he says, his breath coming faster.

And he's right. Nothing matters now. She'd dreamed of this so often, of making love to him for hours, slowly and languorously as they explored each other's body… and now, going slowly would be about the worst form of torture imaginable. She's so beyond ready. She's been ready for him for the last thousand years. She's so wet that her thighs are sliding against each other, and the Doctor isn't even trying to hold off. They need this, she knows. Days, months, years of them dancing around this moment has been all the foreplay any sane person could have endured. It's no longer a moment for getting to know one another, to lazily taste her way down his body and have him do the same. This is a moment of sheer, frantic need to have him inside her, and for nothing to stop them this time.

The Doctor seems to know it, too. In another flash, his trousers are gone and his mouth is clamped on hers. His erection probes higher, seeking out her warmth, until the tip of him stops, right at her entrance.

His head pulls back and his eyes meet hers frantically because they both know this is it- the moment when everything will change, and they can never again pretend that this isn't between them. In another second, he'll be inside of her, and the reality hits her like an explosion. The Doctor is going to be _inside_ of her.

"Clara," he breathes.

She smiles as he stops, unable to finish the words. She understands why. There are some moments that are just too big. But he doesn't need to say them, anyway. This was just a moment that was always meant to happen between them, and she reaches up a hand to stroke his face.

"Yours," she tells him again.

The Doctor exhales slowly, then closes his eyes as he slides into her. The feeling, the glorious, unbelievable feeling of him filling and stretching her is so much that she barely hears his moan of pleasure over her own.

"Oh, god," she breathes, as he rests within her a moment, and then, before she can even comprehend the enormity of the fact that they're joined at long, bloody last, he begins to move, rocking softly at first, then sliding further back, until he's panting as he pushes harder into her with a surprising strength she never knew he had.

"Clara, I… I can't stop," he gasps, thrusting into her over and over as she almost screams with the pleasure of it.

And she doesn't want him to stop. Even if it means him breaking every bone in her body, she doesn't care. Nothing would hurt worse than having him slide out of her and never having finished this act between them.

"Don't you _dare_ stop," she commands him, and moans once more as he thrusts again, and this time she hears the brass headboard rattle above her head as the Doctor grabs at it with one hand, trying to steady himself. But his movements are already becoming erratic, the bed creaking like it's going to break in two, and she clutches at his back, because this has to last. It may have to last her for the rest of her life.

Trying desperately to think clearly, she tugs at his shoulders. "Doctor, flip me over…"

His eyes are still squeezed shut, but his body slows, even though he doesn't stop. "What?"

"So you don't break the bed," she whispers, and tugs on his shoulders again. He finally stops, and gives a breathless smile.

"Okay," he pants, and in a flash, he's underneath her, still sheathed in her body.

Clara gasps as he shifts, feeling him drive even deeper and at an entirely new angle, and the moment her hips rock forward, she hears him almost scream with a pleasure that matches her own.

"Clara, don't stop," he begs her.

"I won't," she promises him, knowing full well that this night might be all she's ever going to get. She leans down and kisses him, moving on top of him and feeling each thrust of him not just in her loins, but all through her body. Pleasure like she's never felt before is building in every cell, with every brush of his soft lips against hers, and every grip of his knobbly hands up and down her back. It's not just the joy of his body in hers, she knows. It's because this is the Doctor, whom she's loved with every fiber of her being, and who she'd wished so hard could one day love her back.

She looks down, wanting to see his eyes just once so that she can remember every expression on his face as she rocks on top of him. He's grunting and moaning, but when his eyes look up to meet hers, her breath stops.

His eyes are raw, as if about to fill with tears.

"Doctor," she gasps, reaching down to touch his face, but he shakes his head, and flips her back over.

His arm is still wrapped around her back as he holds her in place, claiming her at last, and thrusting so hard that all thoughts of his tears or hers evaporate instantly, leaving room only for the thought that she's going to die from ecstasy. Pleasure and pain build higher and higher and just at the moment when she's sure she can no longer endure it, the Doctor leans down to her breast and slides his tongue roughly across her nipple, taking it into his mouth and sucking.

Lights explode behind her eyes and she screams out loud, feeling her body dissolve into a shattering wave of bliss. And just as suddenly, she hears the Doctor roaring in her ears, along with a fresh rattling of the headboard, and she feels hot, wet, warmth filling her as he empties himself into her, then collapses.

For what seems like hours, Clara listens to the pounding of both of their hearts, beating frantically against her chest. She keeps opening her mouth to speak, but, like countless other hasty lovers before her, finds herself unsure of what to say.

"Wow" didn't seem to cover it, and "I think I just saw God" would only make him tease her about it for the rest of her life. As usual, the Doctor saves her, by saying the most obvious and immature thing possible.

"_Crikey Moses_," he pants happily, and she bursts out laughing.

He groggily lifts his head to look at her, and she sees his hair is sticking up in every possible direction.

"Was that funny?" he frowns nervously. "Because it wasn't supposed to be."

Which only makes her laugh harder.

"Still not the reaction I was going for," he says, frowning even more.

"I'm sorry," she giggles, catching her breath. "I don't even know why I'm laughing." He looks at her dubiously, and she strokes his shoulder. "No, really, Doctor. That was…. It was…"

"Amazing? Fantastic? Mind-altering?" he asks, smiling again.

_The wonder of the universe I was waiting for_, she thinks before she can help it.

But instead she wraps her arms more tightly around his neck. "All of those," she agrees. And whether it's the beginning or the end, she's still not sure, she realizes, a pang of sadness darting through her.

"…just the beginning," he's saying, and she glances at him.

"What?"

"I said it's just the beginning," he says, smiling even more goofily. "Because we kind of skipped right to the end that time, and we haven't even scratched the surface of all the things we could do."

She blinks. "We haven't?"

He looks at her as though it was obvious. "'Course not. I didn't even get a good look at you naked."

Clara rolled her eyes. "You've seen me practically naked twice in just the last forty-eight hours."

"Practically is not actually."

"Well, when will I _actually_ get to stare at _you_ naked, then?"

He grins. "Once we're back on the TARDIS, I can project holographic clothes on to us, so we'll _look_ clothed to everyone else, but in reality we can stay naked pretty much permanently."

Clara bites her lip to keep from laughing. "That sounds a bit… chilly."

"No, it's efficient," he corrects her, and now she does giggle, because even getting undressed as quickly as possible is science-y to the Doctor. She feels another wave of love for him wash over her, then props herself on one elbow.

"Speaking of going back," she says, frowning a bit, as a disquieting thought occurs to her. "There isn't any chance that our bodies back at the Restaurant made any, um, _noise_ while all this was going on, is there?" She's already burning with mortification at the thought of returning to their table with the entire place staring knowingly at them.

The Doctor smiles. "No, I told you, time is moving differently between here and there. Years here would be milliseconds to our bodies in the Restaurant. We could spend decades here and by the time we went back, we'd probably still be in mid-chew on those eggs." He pauses, reflecting. "Of course, that wouldn't exactly be fair to Doctor and Mrs. Oswald, who probably do want their own bodies back at some point."

Clara's eyes grow round. "Oh my goodness! I forgot we weren't even in our own bodies!" She makes a grimace. "I hope we didn't change their history or anything?"

His mouth quirks. "Considering they're a married couple, I have a feeling they've already done this." She continues to frown with worry, and the Doctor kisses her temple. "Don't worry, Clara. It wasn't their first time. Just ours."

_Their first time._ The realization sends fresh shivers through her, and she hugs herself with relief, almost tempted at the idea of staying here for years and years, at the thought of watching the Doctor grow old alongside of her, which has always been something she knew she'd never get to witness. She can already imagine him as an older man, his face lined and his hair silver, knowing somehow that his eyes will still be the same- the same spring green, the same impish twinkle, no matter old he gets. And she'll love him then, too.

She frowns as another thought drifts through her mind. "Doctor, what happens to our bodies at the Restaurant if something... well, if something happens to us _here_? "

He glances over at her, surprised. "I'm not sure, really. Probably nothing. I suppose we'd just snap back to the Restaurant," he says, now pensive. "The mind is a powerful thing, though. Sometimes it can make things real." He shakes his head and then pulls her back into his arms. "So do me and the Oswalds a favor and stay out of trouble for a change."

She swats at him. "What do you mean _me_ stay out of trouble? _You're_ the trouble magnet that…" she protests, but he silences her with his lips.

"Less talking," he says, slipping a hand between her legs and finding just the right spot to make her gasp and forget what the hell she'd been saying.

"Oh… oh, my…" she gasps out, because with her body already humming every nerve ending combusts with his fresh touches, and she reaches up, clutching at his wild, sticking-out hair with both hands as he brings her to orgasm in seconds and she screams in his ear.

"More of _that_," the Doctor murmurs approvingly against her temple, as she lays boneless. He plants a kiss on the side of her cheek. "Waited forever for you, Clara," he whispers so lightly she isn't sure she heard it. "Want you," he says again, his mouth traveling down her body, sucking at her breasts, down to her navel, down _past_ her navel. "Want to taste you…" he whispers. "Everywhere."

And her eyes shoot open because _that_ she'd definitely heard.

But then his head dips between her legs, and nothing else exists except the feel of his hair in her hands and his tongue sliding against her wet flesh.

Clara Oswald has lived a million lives over thousands of years. But she couldn't have remembered her own name, then- any of them.

* * *

to be continued


	13. Mains, part 8

**A/N: Massive thank you's to all for the lovely reviews. I honestly get giddy when you let me know how you're enjoying the story, so many, many thanks again. :-)**

**This chapter is a short one, I know, but hopefully it makes up for it in Whoffle shmoopiness. It's about to get a bit action-packed, so I figured we'd just enjoy a bit more of the happy fuzzy stuff before getting into things that actually happen to move the story along. lol**

**Enjoy!**

* * *

Mains, part 8

* * *

Hours later, Clara lies in his arms, watching the embers of the fire glow faintly orange across the room. She inhales deeply, sighing at the mixture of the Doctor's scent and her own, mingled with the aromas of rose vines and sweet hay wafting in from the tilled window which the Doctor had opened to let out some of the heat they'd created in the room.

She nearly laughs, remembering how he'd prudishly put his trousers back on after they'd discovered (with some embarrassment, once they were quiet enough) that Mrs. Noyes had indeed left a tray of tea and food outside their door. But then, Clara had been too happy at that point to argue with him about remaining naked, and was merely thankful that he was still clothes-less above the waist.

Now his long fingers trail along her shoulder, and Clara nuzzles into his chest as the Doctor takes a sip of the now-lukewarm tea, then offers her a sip from his own cup. It's such a strangely intimate gesture, almost more so than everything they've just spent hours doing, that tears almost spring to her eyes again. Happiness this big just can't be real.

_Don't let me wake from this_, she prays. _Because there's nothing he could even say right now that would make me love him more._

"So I'll marry you if you want," he says, and she chokes violently, tea going everywhere.

"You really are some sort of sharp-shooter with tea, aren't you?" the Doctor comments, and Clara sputters, wiping tea from his neck with her dressing gown.

"Sorry, sorry!"

His eyes flicker with uncertainty. "Unless….don't you want to?"

Her brain has short-circuited, but not enough to ever say no to him. Because she wouldn't. Not ever. She nearly laughs again, still sputtering, though more from wonder than surprise. "Of course I'd want to. I just…. you said you weren't the marrying sort."

The Doctor shrugs, smiling and spreading his hands helplessly. "Well, you offered me scones in the Lake District, how could I turn that down?"

She stares at him, searching his face, praying it's not a joke. But in his old, weary eyes she sees something that she realizes hasn't been there in a very, very long time. Hope. He's _hoping_ for something again, something with _her_. The thought that she's changed him this much, given him something this important, fills her with such awe that her mouth actually falls open.

Clara had always thought that her future with the Doctor could only end one way, and that was with him leaving, and her being left to live with a broken heart. But she's laying in his arms, her head perched on his bare chest, and her body is still humming from hours of love with him, and he's talking about a very different future indeed from the one she'd imagined.

And she realizes something else that amazes her: She hopes now, too, just as he does.

The idea of belonging to him, and having him belong to her for the rest of her life is almost too wonderful to imagine, but she does it, anyway. She's smiling at him, unable to stop. In fact, they're both grinning so much that Clara thinks their faces might crack. Instead, she buries herself in his arms again, and wishes that she had two hearts, just to have more room for everything she feels for this man.

"You know," he continues, tenderly stroking her hair, "the Lake District really _is_ lovely."

She smiles, her chin resting on his chest as she looks up at him, sees one arm slung behind his head.

"Is it?"

"Brilliant place to live," he says, nodding, "Remote, better to see the stars."

She kisses a spot on beneath his throat. "And anything else up there, too, I imagine."

"Well, guarding the planet is my _job_, technically."

Clara shakes her head in wonder. "I still have a hard time picturing you doing the 9-5," she says, and he gives her a disappointed expression.

"I have a _time machine_. 9 to 5 can mean anything," he scoffs.

Her smile spreads. "Alright, but Doctor," she says, pausing, biting her lip. "I know UNIT has more than its fair share of action, but," she pauses again, taking a deep breath, because he has to be _sure_, so sure that even she won't doubt it, "… are you certain, I mean really, really certain that's what you want?"

He looks down at her, his green eyes holding hers just a surely as his arms are holding her body, tightly against his, and his voice has never been more serious. "Will I get to come home to you every night, instead of just seeing you every Wednesday?"

Heat warms inside her. "Yes."

"Then it's a vast improvement on my life already," he says, never breaking her gaze.

And really, there's nothing she can say to that, so she kisses him, crashing her mouth against his so that maybe he'll understand the smallest fraction of how much she loves him.

When they've come up for air, he plants a light kiss on the side of her temple. "Besides, with all the back pay from UNIT, you can tell your dad that I'm smart _and_ wealthy. That might make him dislike me less."

"Why would you think my dad won't like you? You haven't even _met_ him yet," Clara says, smiling broadly.

The Doctor grins at her. "Because I've met hundreds of thousands of species and in every one of them, fathers had an automatic dislike of any person sniffing around their daughters. I'm quite certain it's a universal rule," he adds, looking slightly bemused, then beaming at her again. "But trust me, when I finally meet your family, I'll make an impression they'll never forget."

She nods. "_That _I can believe," she says, then tilts her head. "But won't the Lake District be a bit far to drive every morning?"

He rolls his eyes. "TARDIS."

"Ah, right. And will you take the short-cut or fly her down the M-1?" she laughs.

"Did that once, and no thank you," he frowns, then lets his hand trail down the curve of her back. "Besides, the short-cut means I'll never be late for work, even if we have a lie-in every morning."

She nods, giggling. "In our house by a lake."

"Exactly. A small house with a garden where you keep your dead plants."

"And a fireplace with a big wooden mantle where you keep your reports from UNIT, and I keep my students' abysmal papers," she laughs, joining him in the fantasy.

"And a kitchen that I don't let you near, so you don't poison the lot of us."

Clara stills, her mouth quirking. "There's a _lot_ of us?"

"Certainly. Upstairs there's a bedroom where we keep eleven children."

She bursts out laughing this time. "Eleven?!"

"What? It's a good number."

She leans her head against his chest, still giggling, because even though it's probably impossible, it's so wonderful to imagine that she can hardly bear it. She gets a flash of eleven small versions of herself and the Doctor, and curiously, even the girls are wearing bow-ties. The vision only makes her laugh harder.

"And how do we fit them all in one bedroom, these eleven children?"

He grins, holding her tighter. "Their room is bigger on the inside."

"Of course it is."

"Besides, they'd probably hardly ever be in the house, what with seven squash courts and a swimming pool in the TARDIS."

"Naturally."

"And in our room…" he says, his voice slowly, and Clara sucks in a breath, squeezing his hand. "Our room is where I wake up every morning knowing I'm the luckiest man in the universe, because Clara Oswald loves me," he whispers, kissing her forehead, and making tears well up in her eyes once more.

"I do love you," she tells him, and because she can contain herself no longer, she turns and buries her head against his chest once more. "I'll never love anyone like I love you," she tells him, and the Doctor holds her tighter, as though he could pull her into his very soul.

Instead, she touches the side of his jaw and whispers, "So what happens when we get back to the Restaurant?"

But the Doctor, as usual, knows exactly what they'll do. His hand slides up her shoulders once more, fingers twined in her hair, and his eyes are suddenly alive with not just hope and happiness, but something else: relief, bliss…_desire_.

"Well," he says, "just for starters, mind…"

"Yes?"

He pulls her closer. "I was thinking we could live happily ever after."

Before she can even laugh, he leans down, sealing the promise with a kiss.

So when, at that very moment, he was ripped from her arms, and she saw him pulled out of the bed through the open window, held fast by the legs of an enormous, buzzing wasp, her scream didn't even have time to become sound.

* * *

to be continued


	14. Mains, part 9

**A/N: I just have to say, you guys absolutely crack me up with your hysterical reviews. lol I love that the folks reading this are so passionate about the story, and I promise that you are all keeping me just as entertained as I hope I may be doing for you. Thank you so much for the smiles you give me, seriously! :-D**

**Also, you all know that this story took a bit of a detour (yeah, understatement) from the fun and fluffy genre in which it started. And to be honest, there have been points where I wasn't quite sure where I wanted to go with the story, because of what was going on in S8. I'd ask myself, is this going to be an AU? Am I still going to try to fit it into canon somehow? And how the hell did I get myself into this mess, and maybe I can just slink off and no one will notice that this story never gets finished? Can I say my dog ate my laptop? **

**So, what I'm going to say is this: Since I'm trying to keep this story as something that actually CAN fit into canon… um, it's about to get angsty in here. A lot. But do me a favor and keep the faith, even when (and I know it's coming) we get to the part where you want to throw me over a cliff. Just hang tight and trust me. There is a Santa Claus, and nobody gets a sad ending on my watch at Christmas.**

* * *

Mains, part 9

* * *

"Doctor!"

She screams at last, seeing his limbs tumble out the window. Clara moves without thinking, still naked as she rushes to the casement window, trying to grab him, but to no avail. The Vespiform, the giant wasp of which the Doctor had told her, is pulling him into the sky. And worse, a second one is flying right beside it.

"Clara, stay back!" he yells, wrestling in the grip of the enormous insect holding him, scrapes already slashed across his bare chest.

But she's already grabbed the nearest heavy object she can find- one of his boots lying on the chair beside the window, and she picks up the first, then the second, hurling them at the Vespiform. The second one strikes home on the insect's face, and she gasps as the Vespiform, in shock, drops the writhing Doctor to the ground.

"Doctor!" she cries, her fleeting sense of terror followed by a swift prayer of thanks as he lands in a soft pile of hay beside the stable next to their window. She hears him grunt at the impact, nonetheless, then sees him scramble to his feet, picking up a pitchfork and standing ready to fight.

"Clara, _close the window_!" he yells up, still thinking only of her safety, she knows, rather than his own.

But the Vespiforms have moved to hover above him, as though about to attack, and she grips the window-frame, ignoring his warning, wildly glancing around for something else to hurl at the insects. Above the fireplace, Clara spots a rapier type of sword, hanging above the mantle, and she rushes to lift it from its perch. In seconds, she's back at the window, holding the sword aloft.

"Doctor!" she calls down to him, but the Vespiforms turn suddenly, as if noticing her for the first time. In tandem, they buzz menacingly towards the window, and now it's the Doctor who yells.

"Get away from her!" he cries, running towards the Inn with the pitchfork. But the Vespiforms merely hover for another moment, and then, to her surprise, quickly fly off into the night sky.

In delayed shock, they both watch their attackers fly off over the trees, out of sight. Clara's breath is coming fast, and she can hear the Doctor panting, as well.

"Clara!" he calls. "Are you alright?"

She nods. "Are you?"

He exhales shakily. "The drop wasn't much. Trust me, I've fallen from a lot higher than that before."

She frowns, still, seeing the marks on his skin. "But he cut you," she says, pointing to his chest.

The Doctor's brows knit as he looks down at his own body, and sees a smear of blood running from one shoulder down across the planes of his chest. "It's alright," he says, "It's not deep, and better me than…" he stills, glancing up. "Er, Clara.." he whispers, and points at her, making a circle in the air as though outlining her.

She looks down, and for the first time, realizes she's still naked, standing at an open window. "Oh, my!" she whispers with him, quickly reaching for her discarded dressing gown and slipping it on. "Stay there," she calls when she's clothed again, "I'm coming down."

"You most certainly are not!" he orders. "They could come back."

"Then you come inside where it's safe," she orders back.

"I can't yet," he says, shaking his head. "They found us because we're leaking psychic energy, remember? And that means they're a danger to _anyone_ leaking psychic energy. Someone like…."

Her eyes grow round. "Jane Austen."

He nods. "Throw down the rest of my clothes. I've got to go after them."

She runs for his clothes, scattered along the floor, and tosses them down, telling him, "I'm coming with you."

"No, you aren't," he says emphatically, pulling on the velvet wine-coloured coat, tugging on the boots that she threw at the Vespiform. And she's about to object that she's not some helpless damsel, but before she can, he proves that the thought never even entered his mind. "There's still psychic energy all over the Inn because of us, and _one_ of us has to stay here to keep Mr. and Mrs. Noyes safe."

Her shoulders fall, but then she realizes he's right. She sees him rush into the barn and come out only seconds later atop one of Mr. Noyes' black horses. Together they move to the window and this time Clara leans down.

"Alright, but at least take this," she says, holding the rapier down so that he can reach up from the horse and grab it. "It's not the sonic, but I'd feel better if you had that than a pitchfork."

He lets the sword fall to his side, then uses his free hand to tap at his head. "I've got this, and that's more important." He tries to give her a smile, and she leans over even farther, reaching for his hand.

"You've got this, too," Clara tells him, as soon as he grasps her fingers. "Just be safe, alright?"

This time he does smile. "Safe is my middle name," he tells her, kissing her hand. "You just stay inside with the windows shut, make sure our landlords do the same, and don't worry."

She gives him an uneasy grin. "Worry is _my_ middle name."

The Doctor shakes his head. "I'll be back soon," he promises, then grins up at her. A memory flashes through her head, and she feels an odd sense of deja vu, remembering another time she looked down from a window at the Doctor's face. The day they met. The day she'd woken from sleep and found him smiling up at her as though she was the center of the universe, promising to guard her from harm. It's what he was still doing, she realizes, and she smiles back at him as he maneuvers the horse away from the wall.

"Wait up for me," he says, his voice low and sure. "Our night's not over yet." And in a flash, he's urged the black horse forward to a run, racing out of the courtyard and down the dusty lane towards the Austen's cottage.

And even though it absolutely shouldn't happen, since they were just attacked by two giant wasps and she should be shaking with fright, his words, and the silky tone with which he's just uttered them, make heat ripple through her once more.

But within seconds, Mrs. Noyes comes scuttling out of the front door to the Inn, clad in her nightdress and holding a candle. She looks around at the empty courtyard then sees Clara at the window.

"Gracious, child!" she calls up. "Mr. Noyes and I heard a terrible commotion outside! Are you and the Doctor alright?"

Clara nods breathlessly. "I'm fine, Mrs. Noyes. The Doctor, er, saw an intruder and went to investigate."

"Not very good at it then…," says a voice behind her, and Clara whips around to see a red-coated soldier, standing at the foot of their bed, his musket pointed straight at her chest. "Iszzzzzz he?"

* * *

The Doctor rides through the silver light of the moon, the horse kicking dust as he runs, and he continues to search the skies for the Vespiforms. He can see nothing but darkness and flickering starlight, but knows they could easily be hiding in the clouds.

He pauses in his thoughts, thinking of that. Of hiding in the clouds.

Because that, if not for Clara Oswald, might still have been his fate. He might have still been up there, if she hadn't saved him. He thinks back to the dark days when he'd been a body with two dead hearts, hiding atop the clouds, determined to keep his distance forevermore from people, and life and hope. And love.

Not a single soul had been able to dislodge him from his self-imposed exile.

And then she had crossed his path, and suddenly, even when he hadn't wanted it to happen, he'd been pulled towards her, like a dead moon orbiting a live, vibrant planet. And somehow, all that life and vitality, her bravery and her warmth and her goodness, had washed across him, and in less than the space of two days, she'd done what no one else had been able to do in years- she'd melted his frozen soul, made it green and abundant once more.

He smiles, even while the wind from the horse's running whips around him. Now he loves, and now he hopes- all because of one tiny human woman who changed the course of not just his own destiny, but the destiny of the universe. His Clara.

His brows furrow for just a moment as the horse picks up even more speed, because he suddenly notices something hard and clunky beating against the side of his leg, something inside his coat. He reaches in with one free hand, and pulls out the flask of lemon tea that will take them back to the Restaurant.

The Doctor smiles, pocketing it again. He doesn't mind returning now, because everything is different. Clara loves him as he loves her, and when they get back…. oh, when they back.

He almost laughs, giddy at the thought of a whole lifetime ahead with her. The house by the lake and working for UNIT, and the eleven children climbing through the TARDIS. The image does make him laugh out loud, although he hadn't even been joking about that. His own great-grandchild had been half-human. It was possible. _Anything_ was possible with Clara, and he knew it was so because he loved her too much for it not to be. She'd brought him back to life again, and now, what a life of happiness he's going to give her.

He's never, not in all his long years, allowed himself to believe in happy endings. But he believes now. He even believes that with Clara Oswald, the twelve-hundred year old, snarling, bitter, bloody creature that he is has the chance to finally become the most elusive thing of all, the thing he always hoped he might be before the end came: a good man.

He has Clara, and that's all he'll ever need to believe.

* * *

"I've got you now, don't I?" says the red-coated soldier, just as Clara hears a shriek and a yell downstairs, the voices of Mr. and Mrs. Noyes.

In seconds, another soldier bursts through the open door. "It's not them downstairs," the soldier tells the first. "They just smell human."

Her eyes widen. Of course. The same soldiers that nearly knocked them over earlier in the day, the newly-arrived, reckless men that Mrs. Noyes had mentioned.

"You're the Vespiform," she breathes, and the first soldier turns back, his musket still pointed directly at her.

"Told you it was them. The ones from the street today. Knew we just had to follow their trail."

"Don't you hurt her! Don't you dare!" she hears the muffled voice of Mr and Mrs. Noyes from downstairs, and she sees the first soldier glance at the second.

"Don't worry, I tied them up," he says, jerking his head towards the door, and the soldier near Clara nods.

"Better tie this one up, too," he orders, as his comrade strips the bedsheets from the bed and splits them, using them to bind Clara's wrists to the metal foot-posts.

Her chest is rising and falling rapidly, but even so, she realizes she's not afraid. Not for herself, anyway. She's afraid for them, and what will happen to them if the Doctor comes in and sees them with a musket pointed at her heart.

She says not a word, because she doesn't have to. There's nothing she could say to make them understand what terror they've unleashed upon themselves. Because the Doctor is coming for her. And that means that endless, relentless pain is coming for them.

The second soldier pauses beside Clara, grabbing a lock of her hair, taking a whiff. "She smells different, all right, but not like the one I took out of the bed. He was something even more."

The first soldier's eyes narrow. "How much more?"

"More psychic energy than this whole planet of humans combined."

Clara's eyes widen again as the soldier with the musket pushes it into right into the tender flesh beneath her breasts. "That so?" he drawls. "Guess we'll have to do something to get his attention and bring him straight back, won't we?"

And with that, he fires the gun.

* * *

The Doctor's horse rears up with an angry neigh as he yanks back on the reins.

A musket shot.

Even his human ears could hear it. And from the direction of the Inn. He looks into the sky, scanning for Vespiform, peering into the clouds. Not that they'd be shaped like clouds, because he'd already told Clara, if they transformed they probably be like Roman…. soldiers.

The soldiers who'd nearly knocked them down earlier today. Who'd have sensed psychic energy coming off of him. Soldiers with muskets. Alone with Clara.

His face drains of color and he grips the sword she's given him, before whirling the Noyes' horse around, racing back to the Inn.

* * *

_to be continued..._


	15. A Matter of Payment

**A/N: **

**I know I know. But I'm not **_**trying**_ **to torture them (or all of you), I swear! It's just not all that easy to figure out a way to give them a happy ending that actually meshes with canon (because my brain just doesn't do AUs and always, always wants to fit things into canon) **_**and**_ **explains their nutty behavior from "Time of the Doctor" onwards, you know? And to prove I'm not trying to torture anyone, I'm going to try to speed up my updates so that no one ends up tearing out their hair (too much). See how I love you? **

**Also, I think I've figured out that this story is going to call for a sequel. That way this story can stay in canon (for canon freaks like myself), and the sequel can go as shmoopy/happy/fluffy as we want- but I'll leave that up to all of you.**

**But for now, go ahead and brace yourselves. And, er, just remember that I want a happy ending just as much as you do. ;-)**

* * *

_A Matter of Payment_

* * *

_It wasn't Clara, it wasn't Clara, it wasn't Clara._

It's the mantra that plays through his head, as he rides, the only force that keeps him moving, taking breath, heart beating.

* * *

"Pick her up," the first soldier says. "Might as well untie her now she can't run anywhere."

The second soldier obeys, starting to untie the knots around the wrists of the dead girl with the long black hair.

* * *

He doesn't go through the front door, because he can hear Mr. and Mrs. Noyes calling for help in muffled cries, and he has to get to Clara first, can't lose the element of surprise should the landlords cry out upon seeing him. He runs up the back stairs of the Inn, and each one is a promise to himself.

_Not Clara, not Clara, not Clara, notclaranotclaranotclara…_

But that's when he bursts through the open door and sees her body, crumpled on the floor, one hand still tied to the bedposts, her eyes open and devoid of light.

"Ah, about time," says the soldier, who laughs beside the other.

His knees give way, and he clutches the frame of the door to keep from falling.

"No."

He's falling, falling, inside his head, because the world had just ended, and there is nothing in existence except himself and Clara's lifeless body.

His feet feel as though they're running through sand, as though it takes him hours to reach her body where it's fallen, even though he knows it's less than a second. His arms reach her, pulling her up and that's when he sees the blood, spreading out from her chest, spilling across the white of her dress, like a constellation in a collapsing universe.

His universe is collapsing.

And before he knows what he's doing, his hand has tightened on the rapier, and a light explodes behind his eyes. He screams with rage.

And then he whirls, and in one quick movement, slices clean through the throat of the first soldier, ripping his head from his body before he even has time to change back into his true form. He sees the second soldier through a haze of red mist, barely registers the horrified expression in his victim's eyes, before he whirls again and slices off the second soldier's head, watching as it rolls to the floor, as the bodies of both men fall into slumps, and then… slowly change into their true insect form, then turn to dust laying across the hearth.

The red mist of his eyes fades, and he's panting when the rapier drops to the floor with a clanking sound, the dust swirling around his feet.

It's only then that he turns back to see Clara's body, still lying on the floor. And it can't be real.

_No please no, don't let this be real._

As if in a trance, he remembers the voice of the Whispermen, the prediction that has come true, over and over again:

_The girl who dies he tries to save_

_She'll die again beside his grave_

"No!" he cries, running over and clutching her to him. He unties her hand still bound to the bedpost, moaning at the raw, red streaks on her wrists and gathers her into his arms. Picking her up as though she weighs nothing, he hurries down the stairs, thinking that if he can just get her out of the house, if he can get her somewhere, anywhere….he has to run, he has to run, because that's how the pain stops…...

"Doctor Oswald!" Mr. Noyes cries, tied to his dining room chairs beside his wife.

Mrs. Noyes' eyes grow wide, seeing Clara in his arms "Oh god above, is that…..?"

"She's going to live, she's going to live…" he chants, not even stopping to help them, and he carries Clara outside, where the perfume of rose vines and hay assault him, as though the world simply hasn't noticed that the whole universe has ended.

He moves his fingers to Clara's neck, searching desperately for a pulse. He finds none. And that's when he collapses in the courtyard, cradling her against him.

"No, no, no…." he whispers, "No, you can't. Not this time." His fingers stroke the side of her perfect, un-marred face, the face he has watched die already, over and over. He presses his forehead to hers. "Clara, come back to me," he orders.

He kisses the side of her temple, cool in the night air, growing cooler with each passing second. "Our life is waiting, remember?" His fingers grip her body desperately, digging into the flesh as though enough pressure could stir it into life. "Please…. _please_. Oh, my angel, you have to come back.….," and his eyes squeeze shut again because Clara, his Clara, can no longer hear him.

He takes off his coat, wrapping it around her, and hears something fall faintly to the ground with a soft thud. He looks downs and sees: the flask of tea.

His eyes widen and he grabs for it, a lifeline, and quickly unscrews the cap, pouring it into her mouth, taking sips for himself, then pouring more across her lips, watching it bubble up and fall down the side of her neck because there's no live muscle to swallow.

He watches the tea spill into the ground, caking the dust into small spots, and he waits, clutching her, waiting for them to return to the safety of the restaurant. Except nothing happens, nothing but the night air on his face and the steady cooling of Clara's dead body in his arms.

His head flies up and he screams into the sky. "No! No, not _her_! Please! Haven't I give you enough yet?" His head falls against Clara's again, her skin still smooth against his forehead. "I've lost them all, one by one, but _I will not lose her_, do you hear me?" he finally lets go of her at last, setting her down gently in the dust only to stand and unleash his anguish at the stars.

"What do you want from me?!" he yells, throwing out his arms, spread wide in surrender, his fists clenched. "I promised to save her when she was Oswin and you took her away from me! I promised to save the _world_ like a good Doctor if you'd just let her live and _you took her away from me_! You've taken her life a million times over already, so what do I have to promise to keep her alive? _What do you want from me_?!"

He sinks to the ground, cradling her again, crying finally, into her dark hair. "Clara," he moans, pressing his wet cheek against hers, "I don't know what to do. I don't know what else to offer…."

His mind searches frantically, because he's sacrificed his own planet and race to save the universe, he's offered his own life to save hers when he jumped into his timestream after her, and none of it has made a difference, and what more can he give than his own life…..

He stops and inhales a breath. Because he suddenly knows. It's not his life at all that's the price, it's what he's _done_ with his life, the promise he made to himself so long ago. The the only thing he hasn't offered to give up ….is being the Doctor. The hero flying around in his blue box, thinking he was a saviour of worlds, when in fact, he'd also obliterated many along the way. As he's taken from the Universe, so the Universe has taken from him, in the millions of forms of this woman he loves, over and over again, snuffing her out like a candle.

It's the only price he hasn't yet offered to pay, and now, with Clara lifeless in his arms, he doesn't even think twice.

"Yes," he promises, looking up to the sky, his voice a cracked whisper. "You can have that, take it. I'll never call myself the Doctor again. I won't interfere anymore, I'll stay here, with her, and no one will ever die again because of me. I swear by the all the souls on Gallifrey that I'll never be the Doctor again if you'll just let her live. Because she's the reason they're still there, don't you see?"

He buries his face in Clara's hair once more, squeezing his eyes shut, because being the Doctor means nothing if he loses her. "Take it. Take anything at all from me, just let her live," he whispers.

_Please, please_, _you've got to let her live_.

His eyes squeeze shut so tightly that he barely registers that light is coming out of the darkness, surrounding him, enveloping them both as he cradles her on the ground…

* * *

When her eyes open, she sees him sitting across from her at the Restaurant, his egg-covered spoon still in his hand.

"What… what happened?" she whispers, but the look on the Doctor's face stills her. He drops the spoon with a clatter and leaps over the table, grabbing at her shoulders.

"Clara!" he shouts, his face a mask of tangled emotions- terror, relief, joy, and something that looks almost like insanity.

He pulls her clean over the table, scattering silverware and dishes to the floor, wrapping her in his arms while she squeaks with surprise.

"Doctor!" she yelps, but he isn't listening. He's pulling her, half-dragging her out of the Restaurant, running towards the TARDIS. "Whoa, whoa, Doctor, slow down!"

But he only snaps his fingers so the TARDIS door opens for him and pulls her inside, until they reach the console and he whirls on her with crazed eyes.

"Alive," he nearly growls, then pulls her into his arms again, pushing her against the console and kissing her with abandon, muttering, "alive, alive, _alive_."

And she knows now why he looks half-crazed.

"It was my fault," she says. "I wasn't being careful."

"No," he tells her, pulling her at her jacket. "_I _wasn't. I was careless with you and I promise that will never happen again."

She can see his face working, as though he's fighting back tears, or fury, or both. Instead, he merely descends on her mouth again, kissing her as though he might die on the spot if he doesn't have her.

"I won't let you go." He holds her, a pleading note to his voice that she's never heard before. "Not now, Clara."

She clings to him, too. "It's alright, I'm safe. And I'm _yours_," she chants, tears coming down her cheeks, as he begins kissing the tears. "And I'll always be yours because _I love you_."

"_Clara.._" He holds her tighter, kissing her everywhere. "I love you. I'll never stop…" he murmurs, tugging at her skirt, his hands searching for every bit of her he can hold.

They stumble against the rail of the TARDIS, their arms still clinging to one another, and she can feel him already, hard against her stomach. He's holding her with a defiant sort of desperation, and she nearly shrieks when he grabs her from behind and lifts her onto the rail, wrapping her legs around his hips while his tongue delves into her mouth, searching for hers.

She feels him press harder against her, as if he could simply wish away the clothes between them, and his raw, surging need for her makes her tremble as much as his touch does.

She runs her hands from his neck, down the hard muscles of his back, pulling at him when she reaches his hips. God, she could never get enough of this man. Not in a million lifetimes. She arches her back again, pushing herself against him, and the Doctor groans and grits his teeth.

But she won't close her eyes. She wants to see every trace of emotion on his perfect face, so that she'll never forget this moment of the Doctor, not just making love to her, but _being_ in love with her, body and soul.

"_Doctor_," she whimpers, and he lowers his head and kisses her earlobe, groaning.

And then he whispers something else in her ear, a beautiful-sounding, alien word.

"Say it back to me," he murmurs, and she does, eliciting another soft groan from him.

"What did I say?" she asks breathlessly, as his lips travel down her throat.

"My name," he confesses, still trailing hot kisses across her skin. "You just said my _name_, Clara."

She gasps at the implication, of the love, and abject trust he's just shown to her. "Your name from Gallifrey," she says in wonder. "It's beautiful."

"My name from now on," he tells her, his mouth grazing her flesh. "No more Doctor."

And she stills in his arms, so much so that his head raises from the top of her open blouse, where his lips had been working steadily downwards.

"What do you mean 'no more'?" she asks, frowning.

He looks up at her with eyes still half-foggy with lust. Then he sighs finally. "I mean I'm done being the Doctor. I'm just going to be me. Me with you," he says impatiently, as though it's an inconsequential thing and he's already dismissed it.

"Wait, I don't understand. How can you stop being the Doctor?"

"Very easily. Just hop off the TARDIS, lock away the key, and carry you over the threshold," he says, dipping his head once more, his lips searching for her neck. But Clara pushes back.

"Hold on, stop," she insists..

"What?"

"You're actually serious? You're going to stop being the Doctor?"

"Of course I'm serious," he says, frowning. "I've never been more serious about anything."

"But…" she sputters…"that's who you _are_. How can you stop being who you are?"

He sighs heavily. "I'm still me. Just a me who doesn't travel as much. Anyway, you said you didn't want to have to choose. Now you don't have to," he says, as though the matter is settled.

But she wriggles further back. "Well… I know I said that, but…what about what you said before? Working for UNIT? Protecting the planet?"

"I'm protecting _you_ and that's enough." His fingers grip more firmly around her hips.

But Clara slides from the railing, pushing back, her hands planted against his chest as she makes him stop and look at her, because he can't actually be saying what it sounds like he's saying.

"Doctor…"

"_Not_ the Doctor," he counters, and there's an edge to his voice this time, one he almost never uses with her.

"Stop it," she says, breathing hard, "Don't say that again."

"I don't need to say it. I'm doing it."

"You _can't_," she begs him. "You can't just walk away from the whole universe! It still needs you. _We don't walk away_, remember?"

"Well, we have to this time," he says firmly.

"Doctor, I don't understand…"

"Don't call me that!" he snaps at last, stepping back from her, his breathing coming far too fast, and she can almost hear his hearts, double-beating in angry rhythm.

Finally she says, softly, to calm him, "Look, for once I don't actually know what's going on inside your head, so just…. just please explain this to me in a way that makes sense?"

He sighs at last, his hands balling into fists before he places them on her shoulders, holding tight. "Clara," he says finally, "you nearly died just now. Just like all the other times, and I was powerless to prevent it. It's like… like the universe has found a million different ways of trying to stop me through you. It's done it over and over again and it's going to keep on doing it until I get the message."

"What message?"

"To stop being the Doctor. To stop interfering, stop getting people killed because of my own arrogance."

"But you don't just get people killed. You save them, too."

"Well, apparently, that's not enough. And I don't even care, because the only thing that matters to me now is that you stay alive, and that I don't lose you."

"So everyone _else_ has to lose _you_, is that it? For me, the whole universe loses the Doctor?"

"Maybe I don't _want_ to be the Doctor without you," he insists. "Why can't I just be a man from Gallifrey who happens to love a short, bossy Earth woman…"

"But… but what about Gallifrey? You still need to find it," she tries, going right for his weakest spot. Only she doesn't realize that even Gallifrey is no longer his Achilles heel- she is. "You can't leave them all, frozen in that other universe."

He squeezes his eyes shut for a moment. "Someone else will figure out how to release them."

She gapes at him. "Who? Tell me, who else is there? You're the last Time Lord! Do you really think anyone else is going to risk trying to find them, to save them? It has to be you!"

"Well, _I don't want it to be me anymore_!' he roars, and something in him explodes, as he sweeps his arms across his desk, scattering the tools and papers across the console room floor, making her jump in shock. "Haven't I done enough? Can't I finally want something for myself? After all the times I've come running to save the universe, aren't I owed something by now? _Can't I just, this once, have something for me_?"

He breaks at last, turning from her, his arms spread across the console, his head bent between his shoulders, as though he might fall down at any moment.

Not in all the centuries that she's seen his faces, has she ever seen him look this frightened. Or angry. And to see such pain on _this_ face, the one that she loves, and the one that breaks her heart with every flash of sadness that ebbs and flows in his eyes, only makes it a thousand times worse.

He's right, she realizes. He is _so owed_ his chance to be happy. And so is she. They've both given up so much, so many times, for the good of others. Why shouldn't they find their cottage by the lake and live out their days, when it would be little more than a long vacation for him. Why shouldn't she get to wake up every morning in his arms, let their children crawl over them, watch him fix their toys with his sonic and spend every moment thanking the stars for giving her a life with that much love in it?

Why shouldn't she take what's being freely offered to her, when she knows full well that what she feels for him is so unbelievably rare, because in all of her million lives, she has never loved anyone like she loves this man. And she never will. Did she split herself into confetti, over thousands of years, across time and space, just to lose him, now? Clara lifts a hand slightly towards his and then pauses.

She stops because she remembers that _wasn't_ the reason she did it. She didn't save him to keep him for herself, because never, not even once, had she let herself think he should give up being who he was just to live the ordinary life she wanted. It had been unthinkable then. It's unthinkable now.

She saved him because the man he is, the Doctor, her beautiful, funny-chinned Doctor, was so very worth saving. He was worth everything she could give him, even her own future.

And now, when she loves him even more than she ever thought possible, she must sacrifice again to save him. She'd been right all along. He was never hers to keep.

He is the Doctor; he always will be.

And she will never let him walk away from that, not even for her.

A tear slides down Clara's cheek, and she slowly moves towards him. She stops in front of him, sees his hair falling into his face as his head hangs with frustration, and resists the urge to stroke his cheek.

"You do have something," she whispers. "Something just for you," she takes one of his hands, placing it over her own heart. "You have this, Doctor. And you always will, no matter what."

His breathing is ragged, anguish written in every line of his face as his eyes rise to meet hers. "Clara," he says slowly, and she can see it already, the fear in his face, because he knows what she's thinking, as if he hears every thought as soon as it comes into her head, even this, most terrible thought. "What do you mean, 'no matter what'? What are you saying?"

She makes no sound, except to move her small, delicate fingers into his hair at last, stroking, soothing.

"You can't give up being the Doctor. So really, there's only one thing left _to_ give up."

And now the fear lights his eyes, which widen, and then narrow as she knew they would. His chin juts out stubbornly.

"I refuse."

"You have to let me go."

"_I will not!_" he yells, then turns away, breathing hard as though he's just run for miles, his face working, searching for a solution that just won't come. Finally, his eyes find hers again, only now they're pleading. "Don't ask this of me."

"You're willing to do anything to keep me safe, and I'm not willing to be the reason you leave the universe _un_safe and defenseless," she says, while her heart twists in her own chest. "The _whole universe_, Doctor, full of every living thing that ever existed or will exist" she says, taking his arm. "Isn't that just a bit more important than getting what we want?"

His head snaps up, almost in recollection, as if he's had this argument before but he was on the other side of it. And she can see in his eyes, a glimmer of assent, that he knows she's right but won't yet accept it, like a child who clings to a broken toy, and broken dreams. And broken hearts.

"And you have to find Gallifrey. I saw what losing your home did to you before, and I won't let you give up until you've found them. You _can't_ give that up, not just for them, but for _you_."

He looks at her, misery etched all over him. "Clara, how could I let go of you? I don't know _how_. It's not like we can just forget everything that's happened now."

And he's right. Having been held in his arms, having been loved by him, now, she's not sure how she's supposed to ever forget that, much less give it up. How do you get your dream and then put it carefully back in a box as if you'd never touched the bliss of it?

Clara's head falls and before she can sigh, he's grabbed her, wrapping his arms around her and crashing his mouth to hers.

"No," he says, between fiery kisses that rain across her lips, her cheeks. "This can't be all we get. I won't let you."

"Doctor, please, listen…" she begs, because it's taking every ounce of strength she has to hold on, to do what's right instead of just the thing she wants more than anything.

But he's holding her as though she's air for him to breathe, the difference between life and death.

"No, _you_ listen. The universe can take care of itself for just a while. We have a whole future waiting for us, we just have to take it," he pleads, his gnarled hands sliding to her hips, pulling her closer, as though he'll never get enough of her. "You said you loved me…"

"I _do_ love you, that's _why_…"

"Then say you won't ask me to do this crazy thing."

"Doctor…"

"Say it," he says, kissing her again, his hands wrapped firmly around her back, pushing himself against her, making her want to faint where she stands. "Say yes to _me_, to _our _future," he whispers harshly. "Say it."

And because, just like before, she simply can't say no to him, she lets the tears fall from her eyes, and murmurs back, as if under his power. "Yes," she replies, because she can say nothing else, as his lips smother hers again.

He pulls back suddenly, studying her face and she watches as his features slowly relax, his eyes filling with light once more.

"Promise me."

She swallows, and meets his piercing gaze. "I promise."

She hears him exhale with relief, clutching her even tighter, and his head falls against her neck, as though he's trying to steady himself. "Clara," he whispers, as though her name is a prayer. "It'll be alright, you'll see. He pulls back again, staring deeply into her eyes, his hands stroking her hair.

"Will it?"

"'Course it will," he says, breathing as though he's just been granted a pardon from a life sentence. "It's me. Do you think I can't outsmart one silly little universe?"

She gives him a watery smile. "If anyone could, it's you."

He wipes a tendril of hair from her face, runs his thumb across her cheek to brush her tears away. "I'll prove it to you, you just watch me."

She smiles slowly. "I always do," she says, tilting her head at him. "My clever boy."

His face splits into a shaken smile, and his hands cup the sides of her face. "It will be alright," he says again. "And Clara, I'm going to make you so very, very happy."

He leans down, brushing his lips across hers, softly at first, then with rising hunger, as his fingers slide down to grip the soft flesh of her back, his arms moving until she's wrapped inside them, and she squeezes her eyes shut to keep from sobbing in his arms.

And just then a groaning sound comes from beneath the control room floor, as though now the TARDIS herself wants to argue with him. "Argh, not now!" she hears him yell, stomping his foot as the TARDIS whines back at him. "Oi! I'll have no lip from you, either!" A louder whine replies, and the Doctor rolls his eyes with a sigh.

"Sounds like she wants a word," Clara says, her mouth quirking.

"Yes, well, I'm a bit busy," he frowns, reaching for her lips again.

"Yes, but _I _want to stay on her good side," she says, plastering a weak smile on her face. The TARDIS makes another loud groan, and Clara presses her forehead against his. "Go on. Go see what she wants. She finally likes me and I want to keep it that way."

_And she might know what I do_, she thinks, and tries to keep it from her eyes.

"Oh, alright," the Doctor says, releasing her from his arms, and picking up the sonic from the console. "I'll be right back. You don't move a muscle," he instructs and heads for the staircase. "Because when I come back, we have something to start."

"We do?" she asks, unable to help smiling.

"Absolutely," he nods, picking up Clara's book, which she'd left on one of the steps- her mother's book. "A new page one," he says, and bounds down the staircase.

She closes her eyes, pain wrapping itself around her because this time, this one time, he, who knew her so well, down to the last eyelash, had been so happy when she'd given in that he hadn't been able to tell she was lying. Because she knows now that it isn't just him who has to give her up.

She has to give him up, as well. And she has no idea how she'll ever survive it.

* * *

_to be continued..._

* * *

**A/N 2: Don't kill me, alright? I swear, I really wouldn't leave them like this. I'm posting the final chapter tomorrow, because I don't want to leave everyone hanging. See? I TOLD you I wasn't the anti-Claus. ;-)**


	16. Mints and Coffee

**A/N: **

**Remember what I said about this being the final chapter? I lied.**

**Here's what I didn't lie about. Yes, this actually can fit into canon (so far, Yay!). And YES, there *is* a happy ending. And no doubt you will want to pitch me over that cliff (*dons parachute*) during parts of this chapter, but sometimes, ya gotta have sprouts before you can get to the pudding. It just makes it all the sweeter when you get there. :-) It's coming, though, petals. I didn't name the final chapter "Dessert" for no reason. **

**This is also a fairly long chapter. It would have been broken into two parts, but apparently there are a lot of you who have told me you practically need to take heart medication because of this story, so I figured, in the interest of keeping everyone alive, I'd post everything to get you to the spot where you can SEE that it's all going to be okay! Now tuck in, and Enjoy!**

* * *

Mints and Coffee

* * *

As the Doctor's footsteps fade beneath the floor, and she hears metallic tinkering in the distance, it's then that the knock on the door of the TARDIS makes her jump.

Startled, Clara walks over and opens it, her eyes widening in surprise as she sees their pink-haired waiter standing at the entrance.

"I'm so sorry to intrude, mademoiselle. But…."

"Oh my, we forgot to pay you!" Clara cries, her hand going to her mouth.

The waiter waves nonchalantly. "No, no, mademoiselle, not at all. All guests must pay for their meal when they make their reservation. Monsieur Doctor has already taken care of that."

"Oh," she says with relief. "Then what…?"

"The Doctor forgot these," he says, holding up a small white box, tied with a blue ribbon, which she takes with a frown of confusion. "They are after-dinner mints," he explains. "In case your experience with us was too intense that it leads to discomfort. After you left the Restaurant so quickly, I was concerned that you both might need these."

Clara smiles. "Thanks, but my stomach's fine."

The waiter smiles back. "Oh, no, it's not just for your stomach. These are like the palate-cleanser, but with a bit more….." he bobbles his head, as if looking for the right word, "...kick. If you are experiencing any discomfort from your meal, these will make you forget the entire experience so it is like it never happened at all. Except that they freshen your breath, of course," he says, beaming.

She looks down at the white box, and her hands begin to tremble.

"We want to our guests to only leave us feeling happy," he says proudly. "And this way, they always return for more!" He chuckles, then bows slightly. "Well, I'll leave them with you, mademoiselle. We hope you enjoyed your meal and don't forget to come back again," he says, bowing once more and then ambling back to the Restaurant.

She closes the door softly, and is holding the box in her hands when she turns around, just as the Doctor comes bounding up the stairs.

"TARDIS is having a tantrum. She keeps trying to leave the Restaurant," he grumbles, polishing a bit of metal with a rag, then looking up at her. "Was someone at the door?"

She nods slowly. "The waiter. He wanted to bring us these." She holds up the box with the blue ribbon and the Doctor peers at it from across the room.

"Oh, yes, after-dinner mints. I remember those," he says jovially. "Funny things, they can make you forget the whole…" he stops suddenly, his face going white. "No."

She gazes at him a long moment, and his eyes follow hers to the little white box, which she's already opening, undoing the blue ribbon, and letting it fall slowly to the floor, reaching in for the memory-wiping mint.

"Forgive me," she says slowly, looking up at him once more, her eyes pleading.

He's frozen to the spot where he stands, paralyzed with fear. "Clara, whatever you're thinking of doing, don't."

"Find Gallifrey, Doctor. Don't let us have saved it for nothing."

"Clara." His voice is barely a whisper. "Don't abandon me."

Her eyes soften then, and tears spill once more when she says, "I'm _saving_ you."

Something in him shatters, the enormity of what she's going to do crashing over him. He knows she thinks it's for him, for Gallifrey, for the universe, but none of those things mean what she does to him. "Please…" he nearly chokes. "Please don't do this." But she only whispers his Gallifreyan name, the name only a few have ever spoken, and tries to smile for him. "I love you, and I always will, " she promises, then bites her lip. "Please forgive me."

"No, Clara, no…" he says quickly, rushing over to her, reaching for the box as though it contains venomous snakes. But he's too far away, and before he can stop her, he sees her open her small hand and quickly bring the mint to her mouth, where it must dissolve instantly, because immediately she steps back, her eyes sliding out of focus, and he knows he's watching his whole future dissolve along with her memory…..

"No, please….." he chokes out hopelessly, "…don't change." But it's already too late.

Clara is shaking her head, raising a hand to her temple, her eyes focusing once more.

"Whoa," she says, "Got dizzy there for a second." She smiles and then, peering at his haggard face, frowns. "Doctor, are you alright? You look like you just lost your best friend."

* * *

Clara's eyes are wide, because one minute the Doctor was smiling with her about what had just happened in the museum, talking about wanting to go celebrate, and the next he looked like he'd been struck through both hearts.

But then, as she's just told him, today was a big day. So maybe it's all just hitting him, realizing that he might one day be able to go home again.

"What's wrong?" she asks timidly, fear rising in her at the way the Doctor looks like he's struggling to breathe. She reaches out for him and he flinches away, as though her touch would cause him pain. "I mean," she tries, "do you still want to celebrate?"

He looks at her miserably, his breathing hard, studying her face that she knows must be soaked in worry.

"What?"

She's frowning harder than ever, becoming frightened at the lost expression in his eyes. "You said we were going to go somewhere to celebrate. About you saving Gallifrey."

"Gallifrey…." he whispers, as though he's never heard the name before, an alien word stuck on his tongue.

"So…" she presses him, "did you still want to?"

He stares at her a long, long while, then finally, he takes a deep breath and straightens, brushing down the front of his jacket.

"Yes," he says, his voice still raw-sounding in a way that tears at her heart. "Of course we can still go celebrate." He nods mutely at her. "Big day and all."

She smiles with relief. "Where would you like to go?"

He shakes his head, still looking numb. "Anywhere you want is fine."

Clara chews her bottom lip, still not sure why he's just so off. But then she brightens. "Well, there's a chinese take-away near my place that has fantastic spring rolls. We could order from there, and just, I dunno, hang out on my sofa?"

His eyes lift to hers. "Any particular reason you wanted spring rolls?" And he's looking at her like it's the most important question in the universe.

She shrugs. "No, just suddenly sort of craving them, I guess." What on earth is wrong with him? And then, quick as a blink, she gets the image of eating spring rolls with him, flashing through her mind, as though from a dream, sitting across from him at a white-clothed table in front of a tall window, candle-light flickering between them and for some reason she can almost hear physics equations in her head.

The Doctor must notice it, because he's suddenly right next to her, peering into her eyes. "What is it? Clara?"

She shakes her head again. "I must really be hungry," she says, her eyes wide, "if my brain's making up fantasies about chinese takeaway." She laughs, but sees that though the Doctor tries to smile, it's almost a grimace.

"Fantasy," he says slowly. "Yeah, that must be it."

"So, come on," she says happily, taking his arm and nudging him towards the controls. "Get my supper and make a girl's dreams come true, why don't you."

He looks at her again for a very long time, and something about the way his gaze holds hers makes the smile falter, and her heart quicken its pace. It's like he's searching for something in her eyes, something he lost and is trying to find again.

She tilts her head at him. "Doctor?"

His hand reaches up to cup her face, and, despite herself, Clara feels herself leaning into it. He brushes his thumb across her cheek, as though every pore on her face is a sacred space, and then, as though he can't stop himself, he leans down and kisses her cheek, much as she'd done to him just moments ago in the museum.

"I'll do anything to make your dreams come true, Clara," he promises her.

She beams. "That's my Doctor," she says happily, tucking her head in the nook between his shoulder and his chest, wondering why he seems to be breathing so deeply, as though he's trying to commit the scent of her hair to memory.

Clara shrugs and smiles. It's been a big, weird day. He's met two versions of himself and saved his own world, and she supposes that even the Doctor must get overwhelmed sometimes.

After their takeaway, she'll fix him some tea when they get back to her flat, slide a half-dozen jammie dodgers that she secretly keeps in her cupboard just for him on to his plate, and all will be well. After everything that's happened today, he must be weak with hunger. No wonder he looks like he can barely stand up.

* * *

It takes a very long time for him to hit the lever. His clothes smell of the Chinese takeaway that Clara ordered and which he couldn't eat.

And now that she's waved to him from her window and he's back inside the TARDIS, he pauses with his hand on the lever that will take him away.

This time, he won't go straight to next Wednesday, when he's due to pick her up. He can't. He needs to fly, to go somewhere, to think. And yet he can't hit the lever, because he's afraid that when he does, when the TARDIS leaves the lawn of Clara's apartment building, it will seem like it never happened.

He looks over at the remaining mint from the restaurant, lying innocently in its small white box. He could make the pain go away in one instant. He could forget it all. He could take the coward's way out, and then end up getting her killed again.

Helpless rage wells inside his hearts, and before he can stop himself, he's picked up the mint, thrown it to the floor and crushed it under the heel of his boot. He kicks the dust out the doorway, sweeping it on to Clara's lawn, then slams the door.

It's only then that he punches his fist against the wall of the TARDIS, slides to the floor and lets himself weep.

* * *

She leans her head on the shoulder next to her.

"I miss this," Clara says, a small smile playing on her mouth.

"What do you miss?" her Gran asks, and Clara wonders when it happened that her grandmother, who used to be the one to scoop Clara up in her arms, tuck her tiny head into the sweet spot between neck and shoulder to soothe her tears, now had shoulders so thin and fragile that Clara worries the weight of her head is too much for her.

"Looking at the moon with you," she tells her Gran. "Remember when I was little?"

Her grandmother smiles. "You're _still_ little," she laughs. "Curse of genetics from my side of the family, I'm afraid."

Clara kisses her cheek. "I don't mind. It meant I got to be related to you."

Her Gran's head tilts with affection. "You're such a sweet girl, Clara. You always were. Always someone I could count on to do the right thing, even when it was hard. Not many people do that, you know."

She smiles. "Well, I had to, didn't I, since you told me the Man in the Moon was always watching me."

They laugh, as her grandmother squeezes her hand, and they continue looking out the window of her flat, at the gigantic, silver moon hanging in the sky.

_The Man in the Moon_, she thinks. If only she could tell her grandmother that there very nearly was such a person, a wonderful, beautiful person that had once promised her cocktails on the moon before swinging her happily around his spaceship. She'd tried not to wonder when they were going to go because…. lately he hadn't been showing up every Wednesday, as usual.

In fact, it had been weeks since she'd seen him. He'd given her some kind of excuse on the phone, something about rebuilding a Cyberman and strange signals and implications for galactic peace, but the truth was she had felt something shift in him, something monumental that she couldn't quite discern.

But then, the Doctor was anything but predictable. And he'd never let her down before, so perhaps the cocktails were still coming. She looks up at the moon, and, for some inexplicable reason, suddenly imagines four of them, four silvery moons, dancing in front of her while she sips cocktails with the Doctor, whose arms might find their way around her shoulders, her waist….

She sighs and glances over at her Gran again and sees the eyes in front of her suddenly frown with worry.

"Clara, you're crying," her grandmother says with alarm.

Clara's hand flies to her cheek, where, sure enough, tears are leaking a trail down her face.

"I….I don't even know why I'm doing that," she says, and yet can't deny the hollow of sadness that's just settled in her stomach, the feeling that she's lost something precious and only just realized it.

Her grandmother pulls her into a surprisingly fierce hug. "Oh, my dear, I know everyone gets a little maudlin around Christmas. We all tend to miss the people we love and have lost."

But Clara knows it's not the absence of her mother or her grandfather that's pulling at her soul at that moment. It's someone else entirely. Someone whom she can scarcely picture sitting at her table with a paper crown on his head, reading jokey crackers with her horrible step-mother, but someone who she wishes, with all her heart, _would_ be there. And never leave her side again.

"Do you know I keep hoping you'll meet someone?" her grandmother says soothingly, stroking her hair. "A nice young man who would keep the smile on your face so that my darling Clara is always happy," she says, smiling broadly.

Clara pulls back, trying not to let her mouth quirk too much. "Um, how young would he have to be?" _Because would twelve hundred be a bit much?_

Her grandmother laughs. "Don't tell me you already _have_ met someone?" Her hands clasp together with delight. "Oh, Clara, how wonderful! Will you bring him to Christmas dinner?" she asks, positively beaming with enthusiasm and Clara's mouth hangs open just a bit.

"Er… I'll have to see if he's available. He might already have…. plans." _You know, fighting Daleks, inventing quadricycles, discovering newborn planets_… _the usual Christmas fare_, she thinks lamely.

But she simply can't bring herself to crush her grandmother's joy and say the truth, which is more along the lines of how the Doctor would probably laugh himself all the way back to the dawn of creation if he ever knew she was sitting here referring to him as her boyfriend. And he might never come back at all if he ever knew how she really felt about him.

"I'm sure he'll come if you ask," her Gran says confidently. "Who could say no to you, after all?"

Clara smiles, shaking her head, but lets herself imagine, just the same. She'll wait until Christmas comes, though, because maybe by then her grandmother will have forgotten all about this conversation, and she won't have to embarrass herself by pleading with the Doctor to show up for Christmas dinner and be her pretend boyfriend in front of her family.

She almost wishes that she hadn't promised to cook this year, determined to prove to her father's wife that she could handle the whole meal herself. Because if they'd had Christmas dinner at her dad's house, she could have slipped away early, and maybe spent the rest of the evening with the Doctor. Maybe he could have found some cozy place where they could have Christmas dinner alone, just the two of them, followed by skinny-dipping on some planet the Doctor knows where the people breathe underwater like fish….

Clara nearly giggles at her own imagination, then shakes her head again, leaning once more on her grandmother's shoulder, looking back up at the moon. One of these days, she's going to stop wishing for the impossible.

It's just that, she knows in the pit of her soul, the most impossible thing of all would be to stop loving him.

* * *

The Doctor sits alone in his chair, tinkering with the head of a Cyberman that he's determined to save, despite the number of times it keeps breaking.

"Come on, Handles," he says encouragingly, as though the words alone could bring the metal to life. He stills for a moment, thinking of the phrase he'd once told Clara so long ago. Sometimes just believing enough can make things real.

He'd believed his TARDIS would come right back to him, but it hadn't. He'd been waiting for almost three hundred years.

He'd believed that staying in Christmas might make the pain of never seeing her again dull in time, but it hadn't. Not _even_ in three hundred years.

But he _had_ saved Clara. If giving her up was the only way the universe might let her live, then _that_, at least, he'd made real.

It was true that there had been many, many days after that fateful one they'd returned from the Restaurant where he'd been ready to undo it all, to barrel into her apartment, sweep her off her feet and make her remember that he loved her. The day she'd called him, asking him to be her boyfriend, of all things, he'd come perilously close to breaking. Hell, he'd even pranced _naked_ in front of her and managed to get _her_ naked as well.

And then the Universe, in the form of a truth field, an impending war, and the force of Gallifrey's wrath behind a crack in a wall had reminded him of his bargain, a three-fold punch aimed directly at Clara's mortality. And he'd sent her away as fast he possibly could.

It had been the hardest thing he'd ever done, even harder than watching her forget that he loved her, because _that_ time, he'd known that sending her away would mean she might hate him for the betrayal, for the rest of her life. But it had worked.

And every day that Clara had stayed alive had seemed, to him, like a silent nod from the universe that as long as he kept enough distance from her, the bargain would hold, and she wouldn't die. He'd made it work at last, _at last_. He'd spent his long, lonely years knowing she was out there somewhere, safe, living her life, and (when it didn't hurt him too unbearably to think about it) being loved by some lucky bastard human, surrounded by her children, or maybe even grandchildren. He imagined them all with Clara's huge dark eyes, and that always made him smile, at least.

For once in his miserable life, he'd done the unselfish thing. He'd been strong for her, even while it broke both his hearts, and he'd kept Clara safe, his one last victory.

And that was worth everything to him.

He puts down the sonic and wipes his aging brow with his arm. He'll have to wait for another Cyberman attack to get the spare parts he needs for Handles. But he can wait. Waiting to fight, waiting to die, it's really all he does nowadays. That, and the stories.

As if on cue, he hears a knock on his door, and before he can even answer, a group of small children come tumbling through.

"Oi," he cries in false surprise. "What are you all doing here?"

A little girl giggles at him. "It's story-time, Doctor."

He shuffles over to his rocking chair, leaning on his cane. "Again? Don't you children have homework to do? Marbles to chase? Biscuits to eat?" he says gruffly, but he knows they know it's all an act.

"Tell us another one, Doctor," they demand.

"Which one?" he asks, although he already knows.

"Tell us more stories of the Bee-Keeper's Wife!" cries the first little girl, and the other children cheer their approval.

He settles into his chair. "Alright, if you insist."

"Those are the best!" she tells him, adding. "And you always look happy when you tell those." The children beside her nod in agreement. And though he doesn't do it often, the Doctor finds himself smiling, thinking, as he does every day, of the life that was never lived except in the two hearts that still beat on inside his chest.

"I suppose I do," he acknowledges, looking down at the little girl, and noticing, for the first time, that her hair is the exact color of Clara's when she's standing in the sunlight, which is different to the shade it is when she stands in the rain, or fog, or firelight. "Do you know why?"

The children shake their heads, settling down on his floor, wrapping their arms around their tucked-in legs. "Those stories are my favorites, too."

They smile brightly, and one more sliver of ice melts from his hearts.

He leans back in his rocking chair, as the children wait eagerly for him to begin the story, the same way he always does.

"Once upon a time, there was a time-traveling bee-keeper and his wife, who lived in a house by a lake. And no two people had ever been happier…."

* * *

Clara is sitting in the Doctor's chair in the TARDIS, sipping tea.

The chair smells of him, of leather and something sharp, peppery, the scent she's grown used to associating with this new man that he is now. She smiles because he used to smell of an odd, entirely endearing mixture of hair gel, whatever oily substance he used to keep the TARDIS console running smoothly, and sugar.

And also something that was uniquely him, as if exuberance could have a smell.

She thinks of the scent, and her heart swells just a bit, remembering the man in the bow-tie who had crooked his finger, and oh, how she'd come running.

"Do you want more tea?" the Doctor calls, standing below her at the TARDIS console.

She smiles. "Sure."

He's different, yes. A different man almost entirely. He doesn't smell of sugar, or swing her around the TARDIS as though the very sight of her sends him into orbit. He's quieter when they're together, more reflective, as though he's forever trying to solve some mystical puzzle that he's not yet ready to share. And, for reasons she cannot fathom, he seems to have difficulty looking at her for more than one or two seconds, before he gruffly rips his gaze away.

Once or twice, she's been tempted to gently suggest that he keep his glasses on permanently, since maybe the older eyes that he'd gotten in this regeneration have more difficulty seeing than the last ones. But then she'll see his scowling face and think better of it. It's not that she's afraid to stand up to him. It _is_ that she doesn't want him to think she cares that he looks older.

Because she not only doesn't care, she's secretly, amazingly grateful that with him now looking so much older, it will be years, _decades_ before he might notice that _she's_ too old to run with him. Instead of her passing him by, they'll only look the same. And she'll have gotten to keep him for so much longer than she ever dreamed.

The thought makes her hug her knees slightly, as she glances down at him. Because the truth is, no matter what happens, he's still the Doctor, and that means she'll still follow him as long as he'll let her. Even Danny had known that, in those long-ago days, back when he'd been alive.

She sighs a bit, letting her gaze drift down to the little stack of books he keeps on the table, where he usually sets his own tea while he reads.

_Pride and Prejudice, Poems by Alfred Noyes_, and to her great surprise, _The Time-Traveler's Wife._

She smiles. "No wonder you knew what year Jane Austen wrote this," she says, holding up the first book.

The Doctor stills at the controls, slowly looking up at her with a curious expression.

She puts the book back down with a grin. "Didn't peg you for a fan of romantic literature."

He seems to be breathing very slowly, too evenly. "Well, I'm full of surprises."

Clara laughs, and when she bounces down the staircase to the console, he moves unusually close to her, he who doesn't like physical contact. "Don't blame you, though," she continues. "Some stories just make you feel like.. like.."

"Like you've lived them?" he says, in his clipped, Scottish brogue.

Clara nods, and suddenly feels heat run up the back of her neck. She can't tell him that she keeps those books, the exact same ones, on the night-stand beside her bed. Every time she tries to put them away, she ends up bringing them back, like she can't sleep unless they're beside her.

She doesn't tell him that after she's read them, she's dreamed of impossible, unbidden images, of her and a floppy-haired, green-eyed Doctor, loving each other under a starlit night in a creaky old Inn, the smell of clean hay outside the window. Or how sometimes when she sees the railing of the TARDIS, she blushes.

She can't tell him about these flashes of dreams that are so perfect and precious that they help her get up and face another day when she knows the Doctor cares for her, but will never love her in the way she once hoped he might. The way she will always, always love him, no matter how much she has also craved her safe, normal life outside the TARDIS. But with the way the Doctor is staring at her, she would almost swear that he already knows.

He tilts his head at her. "Do you know the legend behind the poem, the one by Alfred Noyes?"

"The Highwayman?"

He nods. "Yes. He wrote that he was inspired when he stayed at an old Inn, but there's another story that says he got the tale from something that happened to one of his ancestors."

Her brows furrow. "What? It actually happened?"

"Or something similar," he says, his mouth pursing slightly, as he watches her closely. "The tale was supposed to be about a young doctor and his wife who were staying at the Inn, and the wife was killed by some renegade soldiers." He's staring hard at her now.

"That's awful," she says softly. "What happened to the doctor, the husband?"

The Doctor's face twitches, almost imperceptibly. "Apparently, he went nearly mad with grief. And that's when he changed. Stopped being a doctor and became an outlaw."

Her eyes widen. "A highwayman?"

"Yes," the Doctor says, his eyes never leaving hers. "Grief can do that, sometimes. Change a person. Make them become something almost entirely different." He looks at her as though desperately trying to tell her something.

She stares back. "I know," she says. Because she does, all too well, remembering her own grief at losing him as he'd regenerated, and how her heart had threatened to harden at the loss of him. _She'd_ changed, just as he had, and she sometimes finds herself looking in the mirror, wondering where that laughing, innocent girl she'd once been had gone.

She bites her lip, then chances something dangerous. She slides her hand over his. And to her immense surprise, he doesn't pull it away.

"I couldn't bear it if you stopped being the Doctor."

His breath comes faster, and he swallows before telling her. "I won't. I promised I wouldn't."

She gives a small smile. "To someone important, I hope."

He nods slowly. "Oh, yes. Someone very, very important."

She sighs with relief. "That's alright, then." And then she notices that his hand is still holding hers.

He pauses a long moment, before he finally asks, "Clara?"

"Yes?" she whispers, unable to tear her eyes from his, because behind the irises she can see a war raging in his brain. It's a war she's seen often, and one which never fails to puzzle her. It's as if one side of him wants to do nothing more than grab her hand, run with abandon until they've left the whole universe behind and there's no one left but the two of them, and yet another side entirely that looks as though he's ready to scold her for the act of _existing_ in front of him.

She watches the war rage and wonders which one is going to win this time. Strangely, she can't tell.

But finally, he asks her, more softly than his usual gruff manner. "If you could write your _own_ story, how would you want it to end?"

And sudden warmth blooms from the pit of her stomach, because he's so beloved and dear to her that she can't even begin to imagine being alive without him.

"Don't you know?"

"Tell me," he urges.

She smiles. "How every good story should end. Happily ever after." And, for the millionth time, she wishes with all her heart that things were different.

He stares at her another long moment, his blue eyes piercing into her soul. "What if there's no way to get that?" he asks. "What if all the odds are against you?"

Clara shrugs and sighs. "I guess sometimes you just have to earn it."

He frowns, and she can see his mind working feverishly. So she squeezes his hand because if anyone deserves a happy ending with the biggest mistake he ever made, it's him.

"You'll find Gallifrey again, Doctor," she whispers.

"Gallifrey?" he says, his brows furrowing even more, as though he'd been talking about something entirely different.

She runs her thumb along the bones of his hand, soothing. "I know the coordinates Missy gave you were a lie, but you _will_ find it, I know it," she says. "You didn't save it just to never see it again," she promises, and his eyes snap up, as though she's just said something momentous.

"You're right," he says slowly, "I didn't." And he suddenly whirls back to the console, flipping switches. Her heart deflates a bit and she shuffles awkwardly, because it's as if he's put an abrupt end to a moment when he was almost, almost, like the man who was never afraid to hold her in his arms, kiss her cheeks, and grin like his face was going to split. She starts to move back towards the staircase when she hears him bark at her:

"Have you ever heard of the Restaurant at the End of the Universe?"

She blinks, surprised at the abrupt change in topic. "The Douglas Adams book?"

His enormous eyebrows furrow darkly. "Where do you think he got the idea?"

She smiles. "You mean there really is one?"

"Oh, yes. Would you like to go?"

The smile becomes a grin, and she's glad that he's at least talking again. "Why not? It sounds a lot tamer than the places you usually take me."

"Oh, it'll be absolutely harmless. The cocktails won't even make you drunk," he says, but it's in that tone, that very unusual tone that she knows means he's not telling her everything. But then, she sighs inwardly, when has he ever?

"Really."

"Mmmm," he says, then spins around to flip a lever on the TARDIS. "So I suggest you drink lots of them."

She laughs. He looks different. If she didn't know any better, she'd even say he looked…. _eager_, like he was ready to do a cartwheel across the TARDIS floor. She tilts her head, appraising him.

"Why today?" she asks, and realizes she's almost holding her breath, as though the answer is of tremendous importance.

The Doctor turns and suddenly she sees him, right down to his soul, the one she fell in love with so long ago.

"Because I just realized something. _You _weren't supposed to change just because I did."

Her head tilts. "I don't know what you mean."

He looks away, then flips a lever. "Then how about this? Because I spent almost a thousand years holding up my end of the bargain," he says. "And I think I've got dessert coming to me."

She laughs out loud, because the Doctor never melts her heart more than when he's acting like a twelve-year-old (even a middle-aged-looking one) who's ready to break the rules to get his way.

"Okay, I still have no idea what you just said, but I'm all for going someplace that has dessert. Just tell me how dressed-up I need to get."

"You stay exactly as you are," he orders, and she smiles.

"Do they have chocolate?"

"Chocolate, cakes, marshmallows of every color…."

"And you think I'll like it, will I?" she asks him. "As a matter of fact," he says, and his face looks suddenly brighter, as though the sun has just come up behind his eyes, illuminating his whole face. "I think we'll _never_ want to leave." Grinning, she takes hold of his arm, ready as ever to follow him, the greatest wonder of the universe to her, into the vast unknown.

"Then what are we waiting for?" she smiles back at him, and he glances at her, a look of determination etched on his features.

"Nothing this time," he says firmly. "And do you know why?"

She shakes her head, and his eyes hold hers.

"Because Clara," he says, and pauses, his features softening as though they can't help themselves, just seeing her. "My Clara," he whispers, and the words send another delicious shiver up her spine. "I think we've waited long enough."

The Doctor flips a lever and just as the TARDIS begins to rumble, she sees a familiar, very _particular_ smile, lift the corners of his mouth. A thrill of anticipation shimmers through her, because it's an expression she recognizes instantly.

It's the one he uses when he's about to take on the universe.

_And knows he's going to win_.

* * *

The TARDIS comes to a shuddering halt, and the Doctor swivels around, pointing at her.

"You wait right here," he orders, and strides over to the door, opening it and going through, leaving Clara to follow him only with her eyes, standing in confusion in the control room.

From the sliver of open door she can see a white-washed building, with palm trees lining the pathway. She squints, because she's almost sure she can see pink-skinned people with orange hair milling about the entrance, and can't, for the life of her, understand why they look so hauntingly familiar...

But before she can get a better look, the Doctor returns, pushing through the door, holding a mug in his hands. The liquid inside is smoking.

She grins. "What's that?"

He sets it down on the console, and shoves his hands in his pockets. "Coffee," he informs her.

She peers at it. "Don't you normally have that _after_ the dinner?"

"I lied. We've already eaten."

Clara raises an eyebrow, and sing-songs, "I kind of think I'd remember that."

"I kind of think you don't," he sing-songs back to her. "Hence the coffee. A very _special_ coffee."

She frowns, peering at it again. "What's so special about it?"

He stares at her, hard. "It wakes you up."

"Am I asleep?" she asks, laughing, only the Doctor isn't smiling.

"In a manner of speaking," he says, and she sees him shift slightly. "You forgot something. Now you're going to remember the truth."

"Where's yours?"

His eyes darken slightly. "I don't need it. I never forgot."

She frowns at his cryptic response, but picks up the coffee, and turns the mug gently in her hands. Something about it….. almost frightens her. Almost as much as it exhilarates her, as though she's on the brink of something thrilling and wonderful, if she just has enough courage…

"Do I get any milk and sugar?" she tries to smile, but the Doctor sighs.

"Best not. The truth can be bitter sometimes."

She bites her lip. "And what about you? What are you going to do while I'm drinking coffee?"

He stills at the controls, that happy, hopeful look he'd worn just a few minutes ago replaced with something else, a grim sort of determination. "I told you," he says, reaching for the controls, "I'm taking you for dessert. That is, if the TARDIS will let me."

"Why wouldn't she let you? Are we going someplace dangerous?"

He smiles at last. "Oh, yes. We just might be going to the most dangerous place in the universe."

He flips a control, but the TARDIS whirs contentedly, moving so smoothly that Clara doesn't even need to cover the mouth of the coffee mug in her hand. Finally she shudders to a gentle halt, like a bird landing delicately, effortlessly. In all her years with him, Clara can never remember the TARDIS moving so agreeably.

"How about that," the Doctor says, looking around him in wonder. "She must think this is where I needed to bring you, too."

Clara's brow furrows. "But I still don't understand. Doctor, _where_ did you bring me?"

He takes a long, slow breath. "Take a sip and I'll tell you."

She rolls her eyes, but does as she's told.

And the whole world changes.

She staggers back, the coffee mug falling to the floor, and looks up with newborn eyes.

_The Restaurant. The Ocean. Bath. Jane Austen, the Inn, the soldiers, the blood, the BED, the….._

"Doctor," she gasps. "Oh, Doctor!" She nearly swoons on the spot.

He rushes up to her, but instead of fainting, she throws herself in his arms, crashing her mouth against his, whimpering at the feel of his kiss at long, long last, her brain swimming with memories she can scarcely believe she'd thrown away, of his lips, his arms, his love…. he loves her, _he loves her_, he's loved her all this time as she's loved him, and she wants to weep with happiness.

For the slightest moment, he hesitates, and then his arms fly around her body with a force she'd never have believed possible from him, his head ducking and twisting to kiss her face, her neck, her mouth.

"I'm sorry," she whispers into his ear. "I'm so, so sorry, how could I forget…?"

"Doesn't….matter… now," he says hoarsely, between kisses.

"Of _course_ it matters," she cries, still kissing him everywhere. "Oh, god, can you ever forgive me?"

But he pulls back, holding her arms with his hands. "Clara," he says, gulping down air as though trying to steady himself, and the thought that she's had that effect on him makes her weak in the knees. His fingers slide down, lacing with hers and he holds them to his chest, sighing.

"Listen to me. I had a thousand years to think about what you did, of course I forgive you. You did it for _me_. Because you were trying to be brave for me again, but we both got it wrong, you see. It's been right in front of me all this time and like a stupid Doctor, I completely missed it."

"Missed what…?"

"I thought I had to give up being the Doctor to keep you safe, and you were ready to walk away from me forever to keep _that_ from happening. But the truth was, the universe never needed me to give up being the Doctor _or_ to give you up. It wanted something else."

"What?"

He exhales again. "For me to _earn_ you."

She frowns, still clutching to him as though she can barely believe he's real. "What? Earn me? I don't…"

"Yes, exactly," he says, pushing a tendril of hair from her face. "In all the times I met you, with all my different faces, none of them had yet worked to earn you. Even when I met Oswin and Victorian Clara, I hadn't even _begun_ to be worthy of keeping you. You who suffered for me, gave your _life_ for me a million times over, over thousands of years. You, the woman I loved, but never deserved. Was it any wonder you kept getting taken away from me?"

She trembles in his arms, leaning her head against his chest, kissing the fabric of his shirt, loving him so much it breaks her heart, as he continues. "What you did for me, well, that was a pretty tough act to follow," he says, and she can hear the smile in his voice. "But I think, spending almost a thousand years loving you, aching for you, protecting you because you were more important than my own happiness… I think I might have finally caught up. Clara, don't you understand? _It was just like Gallifrey_."

Clara looks up at him, astonished, as he smiles at her. "I never should have been able to save it at all. I shouldn't have been able to cross my own time-stream, not once, but _thirteen times_, and then _change my own history_. That should have been impossible!"

She smiles, remembering his victory. "You said that sometimes the universe makes room for miracles."

He kisses her forehead. "Yes, but I also said that sometimes, the mind can make things real that shouldn't be possible. And that's what I did with Gallifrey. I suffered unbearably for hundreds of years for my mistake. I lived with my decision every day, I tried to be a better man to make up for it. I _paid the price_ for it, and that's why the universe allowed me to do the impossible and gave me that second chance. I had to earn it."

His fingers sweep across her lips, his blue eyes piercing through hers. "And I had to earn _you_. _That_ was the payment the universe wanted," he says, the holds her tighter. "And now that I've paid it, I'm taking what I've earned. Or rather, I'm giving it to you."

"I don't understand," she says, then buries her head in his chest. "And I don't care, I just know that I love you."

She sees him squeeze his eyes shut tight. "And I love you. Which is why I want this for you."

"What do you want?" she asks, because she'll give him anything. Anything at all.

He smiles, stroking the side of her face, the way he used to do so very long ago. And his voice is tender when he says, "I want to see that light come back to your eyes, the one you lost when you changed, when I _made_ you change. And you and he can finally have the chance you should have had all along."

Her mouth drops open, even as he keeps smiling. "Wait. Me and _who_?"

But he only looks down at her with loving eyes. "You," he says. "And the Doctor."

She pulls back slowly and sees his face change to one of resignation as he gently releases her from his arms.

"Doctor, where are we?" she asks again.

His smile grows just a little bit sadder. "Trenzalore. Right after I sent you back."

Her mouth drops open, as he tells her, "And Clara…" He sighs again. "He's never needed you more. Trust me. I know."

She turns her head towards the door as though in a trance. Her beautiful, floppy-haired, green-eyed Chin Boy, whom she never thought she'd see again, who had broken her heart when he sent her away, then changed into… a man she loved just as much.

She whirls back to him.

"You want me to leave you?" she asks, her voice a hoarse whisper.

His face works, as though, once again, he's fighting a war inside. Then finally he shakes his head, wrapping her in his arms once more.

"Oh, Clara," he says softly. "I'd never want you to leave me. But I want everything for you. Remember what I told you once? I'd do anything to make your dreams come true. And he…," he stops and swallows. "_He's_ your dream, the Doctor you fell in love with. You know he is."

Now the tears do come. "But I love you, too. I do, Doctor."

"I know."

She shakes her head. "So how could I ever choose when I love you both?"

He smiles again. "You don't have to choose. He's me. I'm him. Clara, it's okay to love the both of us." He strokes the side of her face. "And all the love you give to him, you still give to me."

"But you might not remember it," she protests. "Your timeline. You're rewriting your own history."

The Doctor shrugs, making a face of indifference. "And since when has that ever stopped us?" He brings her hand up to his lips, kissing it. "You helped me change Gallifrey's destiny when it was impossible. Let me save ours, too."

She squeezes her eyes shut, and he finally releases her from his embrace, still holding her hands. "He's out there, waiting."

He snaps his fingers, and the TARDIS doors fly open, a swirl of snow whooshing through the archway, and with it, the promise of everything she's ever dreamed in the most secret, forbidden spaces of her heart: the Doctor she lost. The one she still loves. Somewhere out there, in the midst of a town called Christmas.

"Go," the Doctor says, leading her to the door of the TARDIS. "Your happily ever after is waiting right outside. Let me see Braveheart-Clara, just one more time."

* * *

_to be continued...  
_


	17. Dessert-at-Home, part 1

**A/N:**

**Now... on to Dessert! (Also this **_**still**_ **didn't end up being the final chapter. I guess they had more to say than I thought!)**

**Dedicated to Cyril, who reminded me of why I was writing this. **

* * *

Dessert-at-Home, part 1

* * *

Clara turns, her face working with emotion. "I don't….. I don't know how to walk away from you."

The Doctor raises a hand to her cheek, cupping it. "You aren't. You're moving _towards_ me. This is what we both needed, Clara. So take it, for both of us."

She looks towards the door again, then back at him, her voice pleading because finding _her_ Doctor means leaving _this_ one, and she's not sure how she can survive that, either. "Why did you bring me here? Why not just let me stay with you?"

He raises an eyebrow. "And let you end up with the next pudding brain P.E. teacher that comes along?" he asks, and she rolls her eyes, as he gives her a sardonic look. "Trust me, this is easier."

She sighs. "That can't be it," she says and he gives her a look of surprise.

"Oh, because you think I'm _unselfish_, do you? That it doesn't occur to me that you still might _want_ a settled life outside the TARDIS? I mean, you didn't do anything that might have _proved_ that to me, like taking up with a human and planning a future with him or anything."

She sighs. "Not fair."

"Very fair. Very accurate," he says, then sighs, his hands brushing across her shoulders, as though he doesn't want to do it, but can't help it. "But it's okay to want that, to want that cottage by a lake, and a dozen children crawling all over you."

Her mouth quirks. "I thought we agreed on eleven."

"Well, I've re-thought it. I like twelve better."

She laughs. "What a surprise."

He smiles gently, and reaches up to tenderly touch her face. "I told you. This is for _both_ of us. Because your future was always supposed to be with me. But it was the me who wasn't afraid to _show_ you everything I felt, who didn't let that spark inside you start to fade." His fingers slide so that he's holding her chin, making her meet his eyes. "It's for me _and_ for you, Clara. Because it wasn't just me who changed, you did, too. I know you think I didn't notice but I did, of course I did."

She swallows. As always, she's so bloody transparent to him. Thinking he never noticed how much pain she'd been trying to hide, pretending, always pretending that she wasn't grieving, not wanting him to see, wanting to be what he needed, feeling the sliver of ice begin to form in her own heart.

"I... didn't mean to," she whispers. "I tried to stay the same for you."

"I know you did," he says, his eyes full of compassion. "I know, my brave girl. But I couldn't stay the same for _you_. And that made you different, somehow. You lost so much of your hope when you lost him, like you weren't sure what was real anymore and wanted to hang on to anything you could find, just to prove you were fine, when you _weren't_ fine at all."

Clara looks down. "You mean Danny."

He sighs finally. "Yes, him, too. You've been fighting with yourself and with me and the world for so long, now, and I _never_ wanted that for you. I always just wanted you to be effortlessly happy, the way you used to be. Don't you think I remember how you used to light up when you saw me, back before I changed, how your smile filled your whole face, and wasn't just a mask to hide how hurt you were inside?"

She closes her eyes because there's no point in denying it.

"It's alright," he says, soothing her, enfolding her in his arms, as though all the embraces he might have taken during his time with her, he'd been saving up for this moment. "But you should know by now that I would bring you _anywhere_ to give that happiness back to you."

She holds him tighter. "Even to hell," she says, thinking of how he'd brought her to the Nethersphere because she'd asked, and how, in a real sense, he was bringing her to the place he'd once described as the spot where all hell was about to break loose.

"Well," he says sagely, "if I could bring you to hell to be with P.E., I could certainly bring you to hell on Trenzalore to be with a hyperactive, pink-marshmallow-eating idiot. _He_ at least has the chance to give me a _lot _of happy memories."

She laughs through her tears, safe in his arms, and lifts her gaze to meet his once more, because she knows, in the most secret part of her soul, that he's right. Of course he is. He's the Doctor. And he was always going to be right when it came to seeing through her. And knowing what she needed.

She peers at him again, love and worry for him warring in her chest. "But what'll you do?"

He gives a dry chuckle, one that doesn't meet his eyes. "What, do you think I can't get along without you?"

She frowns. "Well…..no, actually." And he does laugh, then, which makes her laugh again, as well. "But then," she says, "I'm a bossy control-freak."

He stands closer to her, touching her forehead, smiling. "Yes. You are."

Clara bites her lip. "I just need to know you'll be alright."

His head tilts as he looks back at her. "Well, if I'm not, I have a feeling an echo of Clara Oswald might come along and save me. That's usually how it works, isn't it?"

She frowns at him. "Be serious."

"I'm very serious. A million copies of you, and less than twenty versions of me so far. Just think how many of you I've yet to meet."

"Doctor…." she says, rolling her eyes because she knows he's teasing her.

"I might even meet more than one simultaneously," he says feigning a shocked gasp. "It could be the naughtiest thing that's ever happened to me, and you'd only ruin it if you stayed, you and your prudish, English-teacher-y ways," he says, and she swats him on the chest, laughing.

Finally, when the laughter has cleared from their eyes, she holds his gaze with her own. "Tell me you'll be alright."

And this time, his face is serious. "Will you be happy to come home to him every night, the way we talked about?"

She nods slowly, because it's the truth. "Then it's a vast improvement on my life already," he tells her and she throws herself in his arms again.

She squeezes him tighter. "Will I ever see you again?"

"'Course you will. Just go down that path and take the first left."

Clara laughs, tears welling in her eyes once more. "I love you, Doctor. I hope you know that I never stopped."

He exhales, and when he moves his head, she sees his eyes flare with heat once more, then he leans down, holding her again as though he's changed his mind and will never let go of her. Or perhaps that he knows what's coming and wants to have a whole lifetime of her in this one moment.

"If you love me….," he whispers, pulling back at last, releasing her, and she realizes that he's moving her backwards, until they're both standing outside the TARDIS.

"Yes?" she looks at him through wet eyes, watching him let go of her hand, stepping back into the TARDIS as she stands in the snow.

"Then _go and be happy_." He doesn't add "while I have the strength to let you go", but she sees it on his face, anyway.

Her heart twists in her chest, but she turns and looks in the direction of the little street, where she knows the Doctor, her Doctor, is standing in front of a crack in the wall that can change the future. Even his. Even hers.

She looks back, one last time, at the Doctor standing in the doorway of his TARDIS. She can see his breath coming fast, but even so, he's smiling at her.

"Go on," he says, jerking his head, his face so beloved she can hardly bear it. "And don't be afraid."

And then she hears him give the order that she has no choice but to obey. Because he asks it of her, and because it's an order she's been following since the day she met him.

"Run to him," he almost whispers. "_Run_, you clever girl."

Her breath catches, and her eyes soften, a look that she gives just to him, the man he is now. "Goodbye, Doctor," she whispers back, then turns, squeezing her eyes shut. _Goodbye._

Before she can prepare for it, an overwhelming sense of loss sweeps over her, every day she'd spent with him, every joy and sorrow, every tear and smile, and she almost turns around as she hears the wheezing groan of the engine as the blue ship slips away into nothingness, leaving her behind forever.

But not _alone_ this time. Because it wasn't really goodbye. It's what he'd been trying to tell her. Not goodbye at all.

_It's about to be hello._

And now the future in front of her is the one they were always meant to have, one where they don't just run together, they _stay_ together, if she just takes that first step...

Her Doctor. She closes her eyes and his face swims in front of her brain and the idea that he's here, really and truly here, alive and breathing, and in love with her makes her legs begin to tremble.

_Go on,_ he'd said. _He's waiting….and we've waited long enough…._

She takes a deep breath, gathering her courage. And she will run as fast as she can, just as he'd told her to. She'll run, and she'll always, always remember…..

* * *

She hurries down the lane, nearly laughing with a mixture of tears and giddiness coursing through her. She can see the townspeople gathered as she turns left on the corner, sees them standing in front of the Tower where the younger version of herself probably just left in the TARDIS only a few moments ago.

She hears his voice, can just make out his outline on the steps of the Tower, and just as she gets close enough she hears him announce:

"...Christmas has a new Sheriff," he says.

And her heart explodes with joy.

It's him. He's real. After months and months of existing without him, of trying to claw her way back into the land of the living, to find herself again, she realizes that it was never herself she was searching for- it was him. It was always, always going to be him, and this time, she's not dreaming, he's real! Her Doctor, with his purple coat and bow-tie and chin, and his voice is like Heaven to her ears, his tall body a feast of which her eyes will never have enough.

She sees him clasp his hands, in that way that she'd almost forgotten but now brings everything back, every dear, sweet thing about him that she never stopped loving, the color of his eyes and his gnarled hands and his floppy hair and the boyish grin…

"Hello, everyone," he announces to the townspeople. "I'm the Doctor."

"Are you sure?" she calls out, and his face pales as he looks up and sees her standing there at the back of the crowd. "Because I could have sworn you were my boyfriend," she says breathlessly, her smile plastered on her face.

And she laughs out loud when he drops the sonic to the ground.

* * *

_to be continued….._


	18. Dessert-at-Home, part 2

**A/N: You guys make me smile with your reviews. You really, really do. :-)**

* * *

Dessert-at-Home, part 2

* * *

A ripple of laughter runs through the crowd, and a man standing near to Clara glances at her determined face and then back at the Doctor, standing on the steps looking utterly flummoxed.

"Well, at least now we know which one of you is the boss," he says, smiling, and the crowd laughs again.

The Doctor frowns and seems to break from his reverie. "What?" he says, his head snapping up to glance at the amused faces, as his hands point at Clara, nearly flapping, "No, no… this isn't… she's not supposed to…."

But Clara can hardly contain the smile on her face, the joy coursing through her at the sight of him, almost afraid he'll disappear in front of her all over again, and she says, almost giddily, "I think what he means is...we'd love to stay and help."

The townspeople smile and another nearby woman quips, "Oh, _definitely_ the boss," before they laugh again and slowly disperse from in front of the Tower, as if silently agreeing that these two newcomers clearly are about to need some privacy.

Clara watches them leave from the corner of her eye, and her heart actually does skip a few beats as the Doctor gapes for another moment, then swiftly picks up the sonic and hurries down the steps.

_Please be real,_ she thinks. _As soon as you touch me, I'll know you're real._

And, because he could always read her mind, he closes the distance between them and grabs her arm.

"What the _hell_ are you doing back here?" he begins angrily, "I just sent you home to…..safety." His jaw slackens and he stops at the expression on her face.

She's crying. She can't help it. Laughter and tears are simply leaking from her body, and she's trembling now more than she ever did when she came back to Trenzalore clutching the side of the TARDIS.

"Clara…?" he whispers, peering at her, his mind whirring so much she can practically hear it.

_Oh, god, it's really you. You're warm and real and I can still smell the turkey we were cooking in the TARDIS on your coat, and you're here and I love you and I'll never leave you again and I've missed you so very, very much…._

It's what she wants so say. Instead what comes out is this:

"_Alive_," she whispers, just as he'd once done to her, and she throws herself in his arms, sobbing with happiness.

* * *

His arms wrap around her tightly, holding her as she cries, and it's only when he pulls back that she manages to breathe again.

"Clara," he says again, his eyes roving over every detail of her face. "You didn't just come right back, did you?" she hears him say, while she's trying to breathe, trying to smile, clutching his arms to prove to herself he's not going to evaporate on the spot.

His fingers are holding the sides of her head, peering at her like she's a painting that's been altered in front of him. "Your clothes and hair, they're different, even your perfume, but…. oh, Clara, your _eyes_…."

And she knows he can see it. Not just the slight aging, but the loss, the something huge and undefinable that's happened to her since the time he put her on the TARDIS until now.

She shakes her head, not just to answer him, but to try and clear the tears away, so she can drink him in, properly see the face that was burned onto her soul the minute she met him.

"No, look at me," he orders, and she closes her eyes that are giving her away, knowing he can see that _change_ in her, because the hopeful, innocent Clara he sent running out the door only a few moments ago is so visibly different from the nearly-broken one he's now holding in his arms. And if he can see that much difference in just a few seconds, it's no wonder his other self saw it, too, and was so desperate to save her.

Because the Doctor always saves her, just as she will always save him.

She opens her eyes, still full of tears.

"What happened?" he says, his face working with anger at some unknown foe, she realizes, that will feel his wrath when he finds them for putting her through whatever agony she's endured.

How can she tell him what's happened to her? That he himself sent her away, twice, breaking her heart, _twice_, that she had to watch him die in front of her, then spend over a year aching for him, for his laughter and easy caresses that seemed to die with him when he regenerated. That she kept trying and trying to find the remnants of him in his new self, swallowing his insults, choking down her terror when he left her to fend for herself, feeling so very _expendable_, but never being able to leave simply because _this_ face that she'd loved had pleaded with her to stay and help him.

How can she say that every now and then, she'd see flashes of his old warmth in the blue eyes that had once been green, and it had been just enough to keep her clinging to him, loving him despite herself. How can she tell him that she tried to love another man to dull the pain, that she felt her soul hardening with every day that went by, losing herself bit by bit?

If she hadn't changed, if she'd still been the Clara he'd just tricked to leap into the TARDIS without him, she would have let it all spill from her lips. She was standing directly in front of a truth field, after all.

But she's not that girl, anymore. And every bit of hardness and slyness she learned over the past year, she learned from him, in the form of his future self. So now, as the truth wants to bubble out of her, she knows how to keep it in check, and say only what she wants to say.

So when he presses further, gripping her shoulders and demanding, she's able to tell him the only thing that's really important, anyway:

"I came back for you," she says.

_Because I would always come back for you_, she thinks. She touches a finger to his impossibly large chin, and wants to cry with relief because he's really _here_. Instead a smile forms on her lips, and for the first time since she sat on his floor inside this very Tower, leaning her head on his old, dying knees as she read out a poem from a Christmas cracker, she feels the smile fill her whole face, the way only the sight of him could make her do.

His fingers grip her elbows as he scans her face, knowing she's not telling him everything, and she can even see surprise in his irises, as though her even having the _ability_ to be cryptic frightens him, making him wonder how it happened.

"How did you even get here?"

She bites down the whole truth, once again, and smiles. "TARDIS."

He frowns. "Well, _I _wouldn't have done it, so who did?"

"Um…"

The Doctor sighs loudly. "It was Tasha, wasn't it?" he says resignedly. "She took the TARDIS to get you but got the date wrong and picked you up too late."

She smiles wider because it actually is a truth to which she can admit. "She didn't want you to be alone," she says, thinking of brave Tasha, her forehead still broken from the Dalek stalk that had pierced it, bringing Clara to the Doctor during his final, dying moments.

Then he shakes his head as though the new puzzle isn't as important as the reason he sent her away in the first place.

"Clara, you shouldn't have come back. It's _dangerous_," he says, frowning. "This is _Trenzalore_."

She nods. "I know."

"And now I can't leave," he insists, his hands whirling about, pointing skyward, "there are…."

"I know. "

"Daleks, Sontarans, and Cybermen everywhere, and…."

"I _know_."

"And Time Lords on the other side of that wall, and you….."

She smiles, putting a finger over his mouth, silencing him. "Doctor!"

"What?" he mumbles in confusion, her finger smushing his lips.

"_I'm not leaving you_," she says, grinning like some crazed fool.

He stares at her another moment, scanning her face. Then, after what seems like an eternity, something seems to break in him. He exhales loudly and pulls her into his arms, wrapping her tightly in an embrace that makes her want to weep all over again.

"Impossible," he growls at her, and she finally does laugh.

"No, just really, really unlikely," she says, and for some reason, it makes him laugh with her, clutching at her, groaning with defeat.

"I don't know why I'm laughing," he says over her shoulder. "I'm furious with you."

And she laughs even more because it's exactly what he'd said the first time. But then he pulls back, and she can see that beneath the laughter in his eyes, the happiness at seeing her, there's also anguish, and it cuts right to her soul. "I really wasn't sure when I'd ever see you again," he confesses. "I was just trying to keep you safe."

"Yeah, it's just that you seem to keep forgetting something," she says, and his lips quirk in amusement.

"What's that?"

Her eyebrows raise and her mouth forms a pout. "You're so not the boss," she says, and he laughs again, lifting a hand to cup her face.

She drinks in everything he feels for her in that simple touch, his adoration, his worry, all falling on her skin like rain on parched earth that's bringing her back from the land of the dead. And she suddenly realizes _she's_ alive again. Truly, properly… alive. Just as he is.

For the first time since she lost him, she's breathing again, as if her lungs had very nearly forgotten how to fill completely with air and were on the brink of giving up entirely. Because this face, this Doctor was the one who not only made her feel safe, he made her feel _cherished_. She breathes deeply and feels life coursing back through every particle of her body and she suddenly wants to laugh out loud.

Then slowly, his face changes and though he continues to smile, his thumb trails gently to touch the dark hollows beneath her eyes.

He sighs. "Clara, you should have _stayed_ where it was safe. I might be stuck here for a little while."

She swallows because he has no way of knowing that it _wouldn't_ have been just a "little while" before he could win the day once more, hop back in the TARDIS, and come back for her to resume their adventures.

"Everyone gets stuck somewhere eventually," she tells him, repeating the words he'd once said to her. "But you should have known that I'd never, _ever_ let you get stuck here alone."

He sighs, then pulls her into his arms once more. "I shouldn't be glad to see you, but I'd be lying if I said I wasn't," he says, jutting his thumb towards the door of the Tower. "And that's a bit tricky at the moment."

She laughs and he brings a hand to her face once more. "So maybe you can tell me something."

She drops her gaze to his bow-tie, hoping he's not about ask what she knows he is.

"I can tell you're a bit older, so since I probably missed it, Happy New Year, Happy Easter, Happy Birthday..." She laughs, and he smiles, but then the smiles dims as he continues, "...but your eyes…I've never seen you look like this..." he pauses. "Clara, who did this to you?"

She bites her lip and says nothing, which means, of course, he knows the answer instantly.

"No," he whispers. His fingers seem to tighten against her flesh, and move to her chin, lifting gently, prodding her to meet his eyes. And in those green depths, she can see something that worries him far more than being stuck on Trenzalore. He takes a quick breath and whispers, "Did _I_ do this to you?"

And for some reason, it doesn't break her. It _heals _something, some gaping hole that's been growing inside of her soul, and she lets out a breath she hadn't even known she'd been holding.

"It's just been a really long year," she says softly, seeing him wince, the threat of his old self-hatred threatening to rear its head once more. It cuts right through her, because she knows, in _this_ timeline, it's really he who must forgive _her_. The image of his face after they'd left the Restaurant swims before her eyes, when he'd begged her not to change, not to abandon him. All this time she'd thought he'd left her, when she'd been the one to do it first.

And before she can stop herself, she lets her forehead fall against his chin and whispers, "It was no more than what I did to you."

But the Doctor only frowns. "I don't understand. What did you do to _me_?" he asks, genuinely perplexed, and a wave of love for him washes over her. Even now, he forgets her faults, forgives her so completely that her betrayal, which for him was only a few weeks ago, barely registers.

She lifts her eyes to his and prays for him to see everything, how she loves him, how she was a fool and a coward for breaking his hearts that day, how she'll never, ever hurt him again.

"I broke my promise to you," she whispers. "I made myself forget something so, so important," she pauses and sucks in a breath because it's now or never, "right outside this wonderful place with four moons, where dreams come true."

His stares at her, then his green eyes slowly widen into two huge circles and all the air seems to leave him. For some reason, it only makes her want to wrap her arms around him again, still so giddy to feel his warm, live breath on her face that she can hardly stand up.

* * *

The Doctor pulls her quickly inside the Tower, as frantically as he did the day they met when he'd pulled her onto the TARDIS because a crashing plane was heading straight for them.

Only this time, it's the truth that's about to come crashing down.

He stops when they get to the crack in the wall, as though he's put her there to make sure she can't lie to him, and whirls on her.

"You remember," he says, his eyes round with amazement, his mouth hanging slightly open.

She nods. "I remember."

"The Restaurant, the swimming, the Vespiform…."

"Oh, yeah, _them_ I remember vividly," she says, trying not to laugh.

He closes his mouth abruptly, and then she sees him blush, straight up to his forehead. "Do you… remember anything _else_…. vividly?"

Clara makes no reply, but merely smiles, exhaling, and it feels like the weight of months that felt like centuries sliding off of her, replaced with the bliss of seeing him again, knowing that this time, he's staying. She steps closer to him, so that they're only a breath apart.

"Well, since you know I can't lie, the fact is, Doctor…." she says slowly, and smiles at his awestruck expression. "I remember _everything_," she tells him, then wraps her arms around his neck, pulling him down and kissing him, her lips brushing over his and the warmth, the sweetness of his mouth makes her begin to tremble once more.

Then she realizes that she's not trembling. _He_ is.

When she pulls back, he's staring at her, his mouth working as though, for the first time in his life, he doesn't know what to say. It's probably why, she guesses, he only manages to whisper, "Blimey."

"Well said," she giggles.

"_Blimey_," he says again, running a hand through his hair. But he isn't smiling, and suddenly she recognizes what's wrong. He's _afraid_. She sees it even more clearly when his hands wrap gently around her elbows, searching her face.

"Clara, tell me the truth," he says softly.

She laughs and jerks her head towards the crack in the wall. "Not much of a choice," she says, smiling, hoping he can see how much she feels for him.

"Everything from the Restaurant…. it wasn't just a few weeks ago for you, was it?" he whispers.

Her smile fades a bit and she shakes her head.

"And you've just told me that I hurt you so much it changed you," he says grimly, his hands sliding to hold hers.

Her eyes lower silently, knowing he'll take it as assent.

"Because I didn't come back." He sighs, and his own eyes lower. "You thought I was dead, didn't you," he says it as a statement, rather than a question, and she looks up, knowing that of course he caught the word that stupidly spilled from her mouth the moment she wrapped her arms around him, when she sobbed out that he was alive.

But it's also the truth, because, for her, this face, this whirling Doctor who had constantly made her feel so loved, had been dead for over a year. And she had never stopped grieving for him.

"Yes," she whispers.

He must see the utter anguish in her face, because in another moment, he's pulled her more tightly, wrapping his arms so firmly around her it almost hurts, except any touch from him now could never hurt. "Oh, Clara, I'm sorry. Can you forgive me?"

"Only if you forgive me," she replies, burying her head in the scratchy fabric of his waistcoat, feeling his bow-tie tickle her forehead and wanting to take up residence right there, in the safety of his arms.

But he's already kissing the top of her head. "There's nothing to forgive," he says. "I know you did it for me." And she wants to cry all over again, because it's exactly what the older Doctor had told her. She squeezes him more tightly, just as she hears him sigh.

"And Clara, it's alright if you don't love me anymore. I understand."

Her head snaps up. "What?"

"Over a year... it's a long time," he says, his green eyes struggling to land somewhere between pained and understanding.

She shakes her head, sure she's not hearing this right, and actually steps back from him. "Wait. You think I don't love you anymore?" she says slowly, and her mouth hangs open. He looks wretched, as though the words cause him pain, and when he looks away once more, she thinks her heart will break.

When he'd told her he was from another planet, he hadn't shocked her as much as this.

His arms fall limply to his sides, and he shoves them in his pockets,his chin jutting slightly in the way he always does when he's was trying to hide his own hurt.

"I'm just saying that a lot can happen in a ye..."

"Oi!" she shouts, stamping her foot so loudly that the sound echoes throughout the dusty, disused room around them. The crack in the wall even seems to glow more brightly, and the Doctor is looking at her in shock.

"What?" he gulps, and when he glances back at her, she's ready to tear into him for being so blind. Instead, she remembers that there's a much better way to convince him how she feels.

She throws her arms around him and kisses him like the world is coming to an end.

Into every brush of her lips against his, she pours all the love, passion, and fervor that she hadn't even known had been building in her heart, like a river with no outlet that has finally broken free.

For a man who's supposed to be unflappable, she's amazed to discover that he seems to be swaying on the spot. But now isn't the time for mercy. He's had this coming for years.

"I love you!" she yells, even as she kisses him everywhere she can reach. "_I love you_, you big stupid alien!"

At her words, the Doctor freezes in place, but then pulls back, looking more confused than ever. "I don't understand."

She rolls her eyes at him. "What a shocker."

"You love me?"

"Yes!"

"Even after all this time?"

"Yes!"

"As more than just a friend?"

"_Yes!_"

He pauses, only this time, the smallest hint of a smile is forming in the corner of his mouth. "You're not just saying it?"

She glares at him. "_I am standing in front of a truth field_."

She watches him carefully, and sees a slow smile spread across his face. His arms slink back around her waist, and he lets out a breath of such relief and amazement it seems as though he'd been holding it in, just as long as she has.

"Well then, Clara Oswald," he nearly chuckles, and this time it's he who leans forward, "I shall have to tell you something I've never told another human being."

"What's that?" she asks, afraid to smile.

"Looks like you really are stuck with me," he says, grinning.

She laughs, tears of happiness trickling down her cheek as his hand slides up to cup the side of her head and pull her lips to his. His mouth, soft and sweet and what Heaven must taste like, surrounds hers, and Clara trembles at the feel of his fingers clutching the fabric of her dress, demanding all of her which she will so willingly, happily give. She hears him gasp into her mouth, sending volts of electricity up her spine, sparking hunger for him in every nerve ending.

"Clara," he says breathlessly, pulling back for air, and of all the times she has ever heard the Doctor utter her name, none has made her soul feel awash in joy as this one. She brings her arms around his neck, pressing her forehead against his.

"We were both so wrong," she whispers. "I don't know why we were so blind not to see that we've always been okay _as long as we stayed together_."

He stops and pulls back, and she can see in his face that he's daring to believe, one more time. "So I take it this means you want to stay and face imminent inter-planetary war with me?"

Clara looks down, reaching for his hand, lacing his fingers with her own. _Hold hands and don't let go._ Not this time. Not ever again.

"Dare me," she says.

And suddenly that impish, devilish gleam begins to sparkle in his eyes once more. "I dare you," he whispers. "No takesy-backsies."

She shrugs. "Seeing as how I love you…alright, then."

He smiles another moment. And he then pounces, lifting her up in the air, swinging her around the dark, dusty room. She yelps with delight, laughing against his ear as he laughs with her.

And then he lets her feet slide to the floor once more, her arms still around his neck. She sees him grin, the one that stretches across his whole face, before one of his knobbly hands cups the back of her head, pulling her in, and kissing her as though she's the only solid thing in the universe.

"I love you. I never stopped," she hears him say against her lips, as though using up all the times he'd wanted to say it and couldn't. And still he kisses her with what, she knows, is nothing less than pure, undying love. And it's from the Doctor.

She shivers in his arms. "I love you, too," she whispers, tears filling her eyes. "Always."

But anything else he might want to say is cut off by her lips crushing his. His mouth is warm and soft and she thinks for a moment that she could kiss this face for the next hundred years and never get tired of it. And she has all the time in the world to find out.

She's almost floating by the time he pulls back and her heart lurches when she sees the Doctor's own eyes are unfocused, the irises tinged with red.

"Oh, Clara, I missed you," he whispers and she knows he doesn't mean the two minutes between seeing her younger self and this one. He means everything he lost between them after they left the Restaurant, that he'd struggled with having to move on with only part of her, and now, by some miracle, he's found the person who loved him, once more. She so knows the feeling.

"Doctor," she says, laughing now, "You have _no idea_ how much I've missed _you_…" She half-mumbles the words because he keeps covering her lips with his own. She hears him groan, whether from relief or shock or lust she doesn't care, his fingers digging into her flesh.

"My _Clara_," he breathes, his mouth attacking hers, his hands sliding up to her hair, his tongue reaching in for hers, demanding all of her he can have.

And the truth is, he can have everything. She moans softly against his lips and he tightens his grip, loving her with his mouth and hands like he's never going to stop.

Really, she thinks with a sense of irony, it sounds like the perfect way to start the rest of her life.

* * *

_to be continued…..(next chapter will be M rated)_


	19. Dessert-at-Home, part 3

**A/N: **

**Okay, folks, we've just arrived at the last M chapter, so you know the drill. **

_**If you're under 18, skedaddle. **_

**Now, don't give me that look. *shakes finger* It's just for this chapter. ;-)  
**

**Go fix yourself a cup of Whoffle tea. Here, I'll even give you a recipe:**

**Combine Vanilla Caramel black tea and Raspberry white or black tea, steep in hot water, strain, add milk and sugar, and enjoy. Hand to heart, it actually does taste like what a "jammie dodger souffle" might taste like- Win!**

**Then come back for the next chapter and we'll see you there!  
**

* * *

Dessert-at-Home, part 3

* * *

The Doctor's brain is performing several hundred calculations at once, which primarily involve _not_ short-circuiting at the feel of Clara's tongue in his mouth, recalling the exact layout of the room in which they're standing to see if there's a bed or chair or desk nearby, how he really _should_ be thinking of putting her straight back on the TARDIS the second it returns, how, at this moment, that's the last thing he knows he'll do, which of the ships poised precariously in the sky presents the most danger for the next six hours, and that probably the least efficient, but currently most desirable, use of his brain is as follows:

_Thinking of impending war:_ 2 percent.

_Thinking of the first thousand ways he's already imagined to make Clara scream his name: _98 percent.

And that's being generous towards the war part.

Because after months and months of wanting this woman, not just to love, but to _keep_ in a way that he'd only briefly let himself imagine, to now experience the feel of her, warm and pliant in his arms, whispers of love from her lips in his ear…. he almost understands why so many species fear him.

If anyone tried to take her from him now, at this moment, he wouldn't just annihilate them, he would make it so they never existed.

He cannot be controlled, not even by himself. And what he feels for Clara Oswald is at once more frightening and more joyous than anything he ever did to earn those titles of terror. The oncoming storm inside him, which he'd been keeping in check for so long, has finally been unleashed with the butterfly-touch of her stomach, brushing against his erection that he hasn't even tried to tamp down. Perfect control of blood flow, be damned.

His head is swimming and her lips are soft against his, and this time, _this time_, it won't just be their minds in the bodies of two other people. He won't be stuck in a human body that can't possibly feel one-millionth of the sensations, smells, tastes that are assaulting his Time Lord physiology, releasing a torrent of desire that has no hope of turning back now.

Clara's small fingers find his hips, and she pulls him against her once more, pressing him into the muscles of her stomach a second time, and now he gasps, his eyes actually clouding for a moment with sheer, unbridled need.

When he looks down at her, she's smiling knowingly, and then, before he even realizes what she's doing, he feels those same small fingers leave his hips and slide down to wrap around the hard length of him, jutting out beneath his trousers, and he actually staggers.

"_Really_ missed you," she says, smiling up at him, and something about the smile finally breaks him even more than her touch.

He doesn't even pause to think, anymore. Thinking is overrated. He needs more, more skin, more tongue, more Clara, sliding on top of him, this second, yesterday, all past centuries and all the centuries to come.

His own fingers fly up to her dress, taking a side in each hand, and he yanks it open, hearing the clatter of buttons go flying to the floor.

"Doctor!" she yelps. "That was the only dress I have….." she begins to protest but never finishes, because he clamps his mouth down on hers, lapping at her tongue with his own, exploring every fine detail of her mouth, then her neck, her bare shoulders as he slides the dress off of her arms, then rips her bra in two with equal fervor. "_And_ my only…." she sighs. "Never mind."

He tries to contain his smile, but really, Clara should have known by now. There was a reason that he'd spent 1200 years learning to keep himself in check with the opposite sex, acting flustered and bashful, an old man with no real desire, when in fact the opposite was true. He'd known, during every one of those 1200 years, that his desire, once unleashed, would be all-consuming, a blazing fire that could burn himself up, and any human he loved right along with him.

He pauses just for a fraction of a second to pull back and admire her. Half-naked, glowing in the faint moonlight from a nearby window and the light from the crack in the wall, she is alternately silver and golden, fragile and strong. She is incomparably beautiful.

And she won't burn, because making miracles happen is the kind of thing Clara Oswald knocks out before breakfast. She giggles at him, as he stares at her, slack-jawed, licking his lips.

"So, it's our own bodies this time," she says, grinning, mimicking his thoughts from earlier. "Could be interesting."

His thoughts spill into the _next_ thousand ways that he'll make her scream, and his eyes darken.

"Be careful what you wish for, Oswald."

She giggles again, and this time, it's all he can take. He pounces again, pressing her mouth to his, unable to help groaning as he feels her fingers undoing the buttons of his waistcoat, then his shirt, spreading her hands wide across his bare chest, making him shudder.

"Oh," she murmurs, touching his skin, feeling the thump of his two hearts on either side of his chest. "I've wished for this for quite a while."

His erection twitches higher and his eyes fall shut, because even her words affect him every bit as much as her touch. Without even knowing he's doing it, his hands reach down to cup her from behind, lifting her up so that her legs wrap around his waist, pressing her harder into the spot where he most needs to feel her. She gasps aloud in his ear, and the sound, the soft, breathy noise of her pleasure mixed with his, nearly blinds him.

He has to have her. Now, this instant, because the line has already been crossed, and it turns out that the prudish old man in the bashful young man's body knows _exactly_ what he's doing, and will deny himself _nothing_.

He staggers with her in his arms, desperate to find some surface upon which he can lay her, and carries her, kissing her as he moves while her hands grip at his neck and her body rocks against him with every step. He hears her moan at the friction and almost loses his grip on her, his legs unsteady with desire.

"Clara," he manages to breathe out. "The stairs…." he begins, but she shakes her head, still kissing him.

"The desk is closer," she pants, and the sudden image of her sprawled out on the desk, her legs wrapped around his shoulders as he pistons into her makes his vision cloud.

"I like the way you think," he agrees, reminding himself that they can try the stairs later. And in almost the next instant, he's backed her up to the large desk that's carelessly pushed up against a nearby wall.

"Wow," she comments, smiling. "That was fast."

"I'm very motivated," he tells her quickly, and his mouth descends on hers again.

_Sweet, so sweet, like cream and vanilla and how does she taste like that?_

But sweet Clara has already scooted out of her half-off dress and tights, and is working at the buttons of his trousers, making his flesh itch and cry with the need to feel hers. In a moment, she's freed him of not just his trousers, which are now puddled around his ankles, but has slid his pants down past his hips, taking him in her hand, pulling slightly and making him fall forward with a gasp, his arms clutching the desk for support.

"I don't want to wait anymore," she whispers. "Not one second."

And he thinks that never have two souls been more in agreement, because he's fairly sure he's going to combust on the spot. He shucks his feet out of his clothes, then kneels to the ground, quickly divesting her of her knickers, then slowly spreading her smooth, pale thighs, anointing the inside of each one with a kiss, loving the way it makes her quiver.

He reaches behind her and scoots her closer, so that the tip of him is poised, just grazing her sex, and he's nearly biting his own lip, trying to keep from slamming into her, afraid of what his strength could do to her fragile human body. But Clara, as ever, surprises him. Her feet lift up to wrap around his hips and she urges him forward, demanding, hungry as he is, and the Doctor loses all semblance of control in that one, delicious movement.

He nearly growls as his fingers grip her hips and he thrusts into the slick heat of her, groaning loudly, as she does. And the feel of Clara's body, her actual body, surrounding his, pulsing around him, wet for him, squeezing the sanity out of his brain, nearly overwhelms him.

He loves this woman with every particle of his soul and she shouldn't be here but he'll die if she leaves him now, and every good act he's ever done must have meant something because Clara Oswald is writhing with pleasure beneath him and she loves him.

And he will have her screaming his name before the night is over.

He pulls out of her abruptly, and Clara's eyes open, the loss of him making her frown.

"Doctor?" she asks, but before she can even spot the devilish gleam in his eye, he's picked her up off the desk and has spun her around so that she's kneeling on top of it, with him positioned behind her. She gasps, then realizes the change of angle, and turns her head to look back at him. "I like the way _you _think," she nearly purrs, and the sound makes him lose control once more.

He grabs at her hips, pulling her back so that he can slip into her again, his legs nearly giving way at the tightness of the angle, of her body squeezing around his. He can't tell if it's from Clara bucking backwards to meet him, or because he's suddenly thrusting harder, but in almost no time at all, he feels heat curling in his groin, a tidal wave of pleasure building low in his stomach, and he can hear she's close, too. Clara is gasping and moaning, while he grunts and pants and can't stop hammering himself into her, over and over again as his body begs for a release he won't allow until she finishes first. But he's so very close, and the hot, tight feel of her…..

He leans forward, his body almost spooning hers, and he slips a hand between her legs, his fingers whirling at her sex. "Come for me, Clara," he whispers roughly and she does, in glorious, screaming, scented technicolor that pushes him over the edge and makes his own orgasm rip through him like a tsunami as he roars in her ear and empties himself into her.

When their screams have subsided, he realizes that she's clutching the sides of the desk, shaking underneath him, trying not to fall off.

He chuckles and pulls at her elbows, sliding out of her with a soft hiss and turning her around so that he can enfold her in his arms. He can hear the hammering of his own hearts, beating against the side of her face, and the soft _thump-thump_ of Clara's heart against his stomach.

For the first time, he's without words. So, of course, Clara supplies them.

"Yowza," she whispers, and he laughs out loud, clutching her to him.

And the months of aching for her, of torturing himself thinking that he'd lost her forever, his hatred of himself when he really _had_ tried to send her away to safety…. they all melt away, like breath on a mirror, Clara's breath on his skin that heals him.

It's then he realizes that Clara, who normally never stops talking, is silently stroking his back, as though she too is deep in thought.

"Are you alright?" he asks. "I didn't hurt you, did I?"

But she only squeezes him tighter. "No. If anything, I think you just healed me," she says, glancing up him and smiling, as if she'd once again been reading his mind. "Really living up to the name of Doctor today, aren't we."

He smiles and squeezes back. "You know, I also have a doctorate in cheese-making," he says amiably, and she bursts with laughter, leaving him frowning in confusion because it's perfectly true.

"Maybe we could end the stand-off by sending everyone a nice cheese basket," she suggests, giggling, but the Doctor only shrugs.

"You never know. Everyone likes those for Christmas."

Clara smirks at him. "You said you like new pajamas for Christmas."

The Doctor sighs. "I do. I do love new pajamas for Christmas. Or a fez." He peers at her. "Why, did you bring some?" He watches her eyes roll, even though he knows she knows he's teasing her.

"I brought me," she says, and both of his hearts flip in his chest.

"How did you know..." he tells her, kissing the tip of her nose, "...that was just what I wanted."

* * *

_to be continued (and we're in the home stretch now, so hope you're enjoying!)_


	20. Dessert-at-Home, part 4 (Final Chapter)

**A/N: **

**The Final Chapter! I actually can't believe this thing made it to 20 chapters! So much for my 4 chapter prediction, right? **

**I thought about waiting until after the Christmas special to decide how to end this story, but then I thought: "Nuts to that! If the Christmas special is happy, then Yay, and if it's sad, then I'm just going to make this happy ending my head canon." Because if any two characters ever deserved a happy ending, it's these two! **

**Also, there's a special "easter egg" in this last chapter for the lovely D Veleniet who gave me a pick-me-up right when I needed it during the writing of this story. Those who have read her amazing fic "What Lies Beneath" will spot it.**

**Lastly, for all of you who stuck with this story from fluffy start to angsty middle to fluffy end, may I just say one gigantic, with custard on top, THANK YOU. Your reviews, favorites, and follows made writing this story more fun than Space Florida. :-)**

* * *

Dessert-at-Home, part 4

* * *

He's still kissing her when, at just that moment, a beam of light slices through the window, illuminating the room, and the Doctor's head snaps up, alert for any sign of danger from above.

"What is it?" Clara asks, and he frowns.

"Wait here, I'll go check from the Tower," he says, his eyes moving to the stairs. They wouldn't have started to attack already, would they…?

"Oh, you're _kidding_ me," Clara says, her voice huffing.

He sighs and turns, knowing she'd argue about wanting to go with him. "Just _wait_. It's safer down he…."

"What?" she says, frowning, then rolling her eyes. "I wasn't talking about that. _Of course_ I'm going with you, you can argue all you want," she says, waving him away, completely ignoring his scowl. She looks towards the back of the large room and says, "I was referring to the fact that, with the light in the room, we missed what was over in that corner."

He frowns at her and follows her pointing finger, seeing, in what was a previously too-dark corner, a bed and a stack of blankets, covered with a fine sheen of dust. The Doctor turns back to her, seeing the mischievous smile on her face.

"I'm just saying, _that _won't give me splinters," she comments.

He has a hard time concealing his grin. Instead, he sighs heavily. "Well, it's a good thing you told me," he nods sagely. "Because I was going to suggest the chair next, and what I had in mind…. might have broken it."

Clara's shocked, wide eyes make him chuckle finally, and even though he can already feel his arousal stirring once more, he grabs her hand, thinking again how impossible she is, loving her exactly because of it. He quickly picks up two of the blankets, then wraps them around their bodies, pulling her towards the stairs.

* * *

When they get to the top, it's then that the Doctor realizes it wasn't a beam of light from a ship at all, it was….

"Oh! Doctor, it's the _sun_!" he hears Clara exclaim.

He feels a small sigh of relief escape him, particularly grateful that he wasn't about to have to fight a battle when he was stark naked, and this time, without any holographic clothing. Of course, being able to see the landscape in the light is definitely a plus, because, from a strategic viewpoint, he's going to need to know these mountains and valleys and forests like the back of his…..

He hears a small gasp and then whirls to see Clara's hand fly to her mouth, sudden tears in her eyes. Instantly, his fingers wrap around her shoulders.

"Clara?" he asks, her eyes still glued to some spot off in the distance. Finally, they turn in his direction, and he sees the tears aren't ones of horror, but of joy. Her whole face is lit up, as if the sun is coming from inside of her.

"I'm sorry," she laughs. "It's just…. look." She points in the direction that had recently held her gaze, and he follows her finger to see, right between two mountains, in perfect view from the Tower…. a lake.

And slowly, his own smile starts to spread, as he exhales, wrapping an arm around her shoulder as she sniffles and laughs simultaneously into his chest.

"I wonder where we can get some scones," he says idly, and Clara laughs harder, holding on to him, reaching up to kiss his chin.

He holds her tighter. He had never really been one to believe in happy endings. They were for fairy-tales. And, he also knows, with a chilling sobriety, that Clara's being here is tempting fate, more than even she knows.

But something about Clara Oswald makes him believe. Just as she'd made him believe and hope and want to live, the moment she'd pointed at a man-eating snowman and demanded that he get the hell off his high cloud and help her. It was easy to believe in fairy-tales when her power over him was nearly magical.

He sighs, squeezing her shoulders once more.

He _shouldn't_ be glad she's back. She'll be in danger every second that she's here. And if anything were to happen to her, he's not sure he'd survive it.

But then, he's probably not _supposed_ to survive on Trenzalore. And, he remembers again with an awful clarity, neither is she.

_She'll die again beside his grave. _A grave that was destined to be exactly where they were currently stranded. He shakes his head, not wanting to feel anything but happy at this moment, but Clara, perceptive as ever, is already looking at him curiously.

"What's wrong?"

The truth field washes over him, and he fights to control what he says. "I was just thinking."

"Yes, gathered that bit."

He pauses a second more, but feels the words come rushing out. "I don't want you to die here."

Clara's eyes widen just a bit, but then she scoffs. "No one but you knows where they're going to die," she says, then pauses because he says nothing in return. "What makes you think I will?" But she says it off-handedly, as though the idea of dying on Trenzalore doesn't really surprise her.

The Doctor exhales, cursing Time Lord truth field technology. "Something I heard once, a sort of prediction about you."

She smiles. "Really? My mum used to like reading my horoscope. What was it?"

He winces. "That you'd die beside my grave."

Her face falls. "Oh."

"Yes."

"Your grave as in Trenzalore."

"Yes."

"I see," she says slowly. "And who told you that?"

He sighs. "The Whispermen." She frowns in confusion and he raises his eyebrows. "The things that tried to take your heart out of your chest?"

Clara's eyes widen with dawning recognition. "Oh, right. Big creepy guys, hanging around Mr. Look-at-me-I'm-Really-Smart?"

He manages a smile. "Are you talking about me or The Great Intelligence?"

"That's the one," she says, pointing, and the Doctor rolls his eyes because she simply doesn't seem to take this seriously. She can't even fathom how losing her would wrack him with pain, but losing her, knowing he could have prevented it? That just might destroy him.

"My grave," she muses softly, "and yours, too." She's silent for another moment, and then shrugs, holding him tighter. "Doesn't seem so scary if you're facing it with me."

He warms at that, at how brave she always is, just when he needs her to be. But even so, he can't help but think that as soon as the TARDIS comes back, he can at least get Clara to stay on the ship, where it's safer. It's already begun to trouble him, wondering why the TARDIS hasn't actually re-appeared yet. He knows that the ship that brought _this_ Clara back was his TARDIS from the future, so the one he sent off with her younger self inside is the one for which he must wait to return.

He wonders idly if his ship is actually sulking, punishing him because he'd sent Clara away. Because despite their rocky start, once Clara had sacrificed her own life to save him, the TARDIS had become so fond of her that she'd even allowed Clara the privilege of opening the ship's doors with a finger snap, something she'd only ever allowed for the Doctor himself.

His mind whirs because he knows it's also not because of Tasha's shield. He'd already broken through, so that wouldn't hold his ship back.

No, there's something else. Something…. not good. But then he looks down at Clara's questioning face, trusting him implicitly, and _that_ is something very, very good, indeed.

The Doctor sighs resignedly, looking into Clara's large dark eyes. Even when TARDIS returns, it's not like he can go anywhere, not with the siege of Trenzalore about to begin. For the time being, perhaps for a very _long_ time being, this is going to be where he lives.

He lifts a hand to her cheek, then follows her gaze out towards the lake beside the disused Tower and amends: No, not just where he lives.

_This is going to be home._

He looks out over the mountains and valleys and lake that surround the village of Christmas, a human colony on a faraway planet that's just about as different from Gallifrey as can be- Gallifrey, with her red fields and sun-filled skies, and people who lived to learn rather than just because life was to be enjoyed and savored, the way humans did. It's so very different, really, but it doesn't matter.

Clara is here. He's needed here. And for once, he actually knows that staying put isn't just something he _has_ to do. It's something he's suddenly _glad_ to do. He, the miserable old man who ran away in a blue box to chase dazzling-bright adventure is stranded on a dark planet on the brink of war with one dazzling-bright human woman at his side.

_That_, he thinks, is actually worth fighting for.

They watch as the sun sinks quickly into the horizon, and Clara murmurs against his chest.

"You'd think it was in a rush to get somewhere," she says, smiling, and the Doctor leans down, kissing the top of her head.

"I told you this place was going to have very short days," he says.

"You weren't joking, then," she says, then glances up at him, eyes dancing. "Of course, short days also means…." she trails off, leaving a heavy pause that causes his head to turn.

"What?" he asks, brows furrowed.

Clara sighs, smiling. "Long nights."

He frowns, releasing her. "Well, of course it does, the quantity of minutes in each day doesn't increase just because…. oh. _Oh_," he finishes, a smile spreading on his mouth.

She reaches up and kisses him, soft and sweet, her fingers sliding into the hair at the nape of his neck, stirring his blood once more.

When she pulls back, the Doctor's breath is coming slightly faster.

"Clara Oswald, have I told you yet that I love the way your mind works?"

"Have I told you I think I'm going to love it here?" she says coyly, raising her eyebrows.

He waggles his head at her. "Have I told you there's a bed downstairs?"

She laughs. "I told _you_ that."

"Clara," he says smoothly, "Do you really want to argue about semantics when there are so many other things we could be doing?"

She laughs again and then throws her arms around his neck, causing the thick wool blanket to fall clean off of her, and making the Doctor forget all efforts of being smooth, and how to get her downstairs as quickly as possible.

* * *

Hours later, when they both lay panting, the Doctor finally speaks. "I come from a planet full of idiots."

Clara grins. "Why do you say that?"

"Because _that's_ a far better way to communicate than telepathy."

She laughs. "For a bunch of puny earthlings, we do have a leg up on your species in certain areas."

The Doctor rolls over and pulls her into his arms again. "Oh, _especially_ in certain areas," he agrees, pulling her leg over his hip and pressing her close.

She giggles into his shoulder. Up in the sky, she knows, a stand-off of cataclysmic proportions is about to begin. But it's sort of impossible to care when she has the Doctor, all soft mouth and eager limbs, in bed with her. There's a distinct possibility that they might never leave this room again, so what does it matter, she thinks with a grin, just as the Doctor leans down to kiss her once more.

* * *

Clara watches the Doctor shuffle to his feet, pulling on his trousers, hunting around for his shirt.

"It's under the bed," she says, smiling, and watches as his eyebrows raise, then as he drops his whole body to the floor, digging under the bed-frame.

He pops back up, sliding the shirt on, buttoning quickly and reaching for his waistcoat, grinning at her all the while.

"What's your hurry?" she asks, hugging the pillow, missing the feel of his long body next to hers already.

"Hurry?" he says incredulously. "We've been in this tower doing..._things_...," he whispers, blushing madly, "...for over thirty hours!"

Clara giggles even as her eyes widen in surprise. "Really?"

Of course, that would explain why her body was slightly achy in a few, choice places. "Are you sure you got the time right?" she asks and his arms fall at his sides, as he sighs loudly and points to his own chest.

"I'm sorry? What am I again?" he asks, with an air of great patience.

She laughs and throws a pillow at him. "Fine, I believe you."

He smiles and swaggers back over to her, and she wants to giggle because oh, dear lord, how she _loves _it when he swaggers.

"Anyway, I thought I might try to find some food," he says, pulling on his shoes. "If we're about to start a stand-off with the Time Lords and everything else in the universe, we might as well do it on a full stomach."

Clara stretches, the dusty sheet falling off her naked torso, and she nearly hugs herself as the Doctor takes three tries to get his foot in his shoe, since he's looking nowhere near his own feet.

"Doubt there's any food in _here_," she says, her eyes swiveling around the abandoned Tower, and, taking mercy on him, pulling the sheet back up to her neck.

The Doctor's eyes clear from their haze and he stands up cheerfully. "No, but maybe the neighbors will lend us some tea and milk."

She laughs because it sounds so sweetly domestic, as if they really were what he'd once claimed would be their alibis when they'd arrived- a simple couple from the next town over. And now they'd moved into the dusty old Tower, settling in, eager to meet their new neighbors.

"We've got to find some way to eat until the TARDIS comes back, after all," he says, turning as he finishes his bow-tie.

Her smile dims because she knows she can't tell him. And worse, she knows that very, very soon, that magnificent brain of his will figure it out, that the TARDIS isn't coming right back, and that it must have been from a very distant future indeed that Tasha stole his ship to fetch Clara.

She frowns now, thinking of the day that she'd run, tears in her eyes, on to the TARDIS, believing he'd come back for her, and had seen Tasha at the helm. At the time, it had never occurred to her ask why Tasha, believing that the great Doctor's long life was finally coming to a close, would have chosen to go back in time to fetch _Clara_, out of all his companions, as the person he most needed to see before he died. There were so many people he loved and that loved him, people she could have fetched from any point in time, who would have leapt into the TARDIS without a second thought to be there for the Doctor at the end, even if it was with a face that they didn't recognize. They all loved him, as she did, so why had Tasha chosen _her_?

"...special," she hears him say, and shakes her head.

"What?"

"I said I'll try to get us something special," he says, smiling broadly.

She tilts her head, grinning at him. "Are we celebrating?"

He waggles his eyebrows at her. "_Lots_ to celebrate," he affirms.

"It wasn't _technically_ our first night together," she says, and he leans down and kisses her.

"No, but it was the first of many more to come," he tells her, and she melts into the rickety, dusty bed, which is now the most glorious spot in the whole universe.

She glances over at the glowing crack in the wall, and suddenly gasps. "Oh, my goodness," she says breathlessly. "You don't think they… they _heard_ us?"

The Doctor frowns, following her eyes to the crack. Then throws back his head and laughs.

"You worry too much," he says, running a hand through her hair. "First, the people in the Restaurant and now the Time Lords." He laughs again, shaking his head, slipping on his coat.

Just then, a knock on their door rings through the silence.

"Doctor!" call some children from outside, and Clara can hear them giggling from the other side of the door.

The Doctor's head swivels back to her, brightening. "See? We've already got friendly neighbors. Not a bad start."

She glances down at her still-naked body and smiles. "Think I'll wait here."

"Ha! Think that's a good idea," he agrees, then clasps his hands together, rubbing them as he ambles to the door, pulling it wide and exclaiming to the group of children, "Hello, hello, what have we here?" She hears his voice trail off as he closes the door to protect her modesty.

She shakes her head in wonder at him, but can't help but glance back at the crack in the wall, turning a deep shade of crimson at the thought, no, the _knowledge_, that they just might have heard her because, after all, they heard…..her…..before.

And then her hand slowly lifts to her mouth, as something staggering begins to fill her brain.

Because, a thousand years from now, a younger version of herself will stand in front of this very crack, and the Time Lords will not only hear her, they'll _obey_, and she had never, ever understood _why_ because she'd been too grateful to know that they _had_.

_Why_ would they have trusted the voice of some human woman they didn't even know? And how was it possible, for that matter, that the Master, in the form of Missy, would have known to single Clara out, from all the billions and billions of souls in the universe who had ever existed in time, as the "perfect woman" for him, the one person for whom the Doctor would do anything, even go to Hell. How could _any_ of them have known what they were to one another?

She shakes her head because even when the questions had formed in her brain, she'd tried not to understand them, because everything that had happened had also brought her here….

Slowly her head turns to stare at the crack in the wall, glowing, _listening_. And she knows, as if the knowledge had always been in her brain and was finally coming out to preen in front of her.

They'd known because _she was always meant to come back_.

Because, just as the Doctor had always told her, even paradoxes have a way of working themselves out, getting things to fall where they were supposed to fall in the domino line of time.

She gasps out loud at the implication, her hand dropping to her side once more. Was _this_ was why he'd sent her away from Christmas that second time, when she'd thought he'd been so utterly heartless, but now understood that, in his timey-wimey brain, he'd been compelled to do it, perhaps not even knowing why. All because she _had_ to leave in order to come back to him later in her own timeline?

When he'd talked about not wanting to have to bury her, unable to meet her eyes, was it because his nightmares were actually flashes of a coming reality where he actually _had_ buried her? It means, she realizes with a start, that her grave _was_ destined to be here on Trenzalore, beside the Doctor's own, just as the Whispermen had always predicted.

She hadn't been rewriting history, she'd been _fulfilling_ it. The thought, rather than frightening her, fills her with an odd sense of peace.

The TARDIS won't return for 300 years, and yet she doesn't feel trapped at all. It had never been a trap for her. It was a choice, and she would willingly choose the Doctor, over and over again, no matter how many times her timeline was written.

Her life with the Doctor, in their house by a lake, and what probably _were_ a dozen children crawling all over him outside. Every dream she'd had…. nothing what she'd expected. _Everything she'd asked for._ It was all right here, and perhaps it had always been meant to be theirs.

She laughs out loud, hugging her knees on the bed.

Perhaps this, too, was why he had changed so much into the next incarnation he'd become, telling her almost immediately that he wasn't her boyfriend, why he'd worked so hard to push her away (yet simultaneously _pull_ her away from Danny), somehow knowing her future was in his past.

She glances at the crack in the wall and lets out a long, slow breath.

_This_ was why those mysteries had happened, why the Doctor had changed, why the Master had known how to single her out, and why, most of all, the Time Lords had placed their faith in her when she'd asked them for a miracle.

They had _heard_ her, heard her life with him, her love for him. So that when, a thousand years from now, her younger self would ask them to save the Doctor, they would obey because they knew exactly who she was. And because she was about to spend the rest of her life _earning their trust_.

Sometimes miracles have to be earned.

She closes her eyes as she realizes the consequences of what she must do, or perhaps what she's already done. The Time Lords hear her. So will the Master, who will one day use the information to hurt and to kill and to pull the body of Danny Pink into the cold steel of a Cyberman's armor. But who will also use it to give Clara a phone number to the best help-line in the universe, and who will have pushed her into the path of the Doctor in the first place.

_There are some things that always must happen_, she'd once heard the Doctor say.

Perhaps this was why he'd trained her to think like him, to understand time and choices that weren't easy, but which were the right choices in the end. And why he'd let her go to fulfill her destiny, and give them what they both needed, just as he'd promised. Tears come to her eyes as she realizes that every choice she had made, every choice _he_ had made, had never been part of a straight path. They, like she and the Doctor themselves, were a circle, unbroken, their paths always leading back to one another.

And she has one more miracle to earn, one where the Time Lords won't let the Doctor die, to give him not just one more life, but the chance to live for more thousands of years. And that, she knows, is worth any price to her.

She stares at the crack, and listens for the Doctor outside the door. She can hear him talking to the children outside on the steps, and wonders if this is how his job as the fix-it man gets started. She can imagine so easily that he might spot a broken toy and immediately offer to repair it, make toy trucks fly and dolls that can recite quantum physics.

Clara laughs, thinking of him, his shirt-sleeves already rolled up, ready to help, his wide, eager grin as he makes the children _ooh_ and _ahh_. Oh yes, he's worth any price at all.

Just then, the door opens once more and the Doctor comes bounding in, holding a giant bowl covered with a tartan cloth.

"Clara, look what the neighborhood children brought us," he says eagerly. "Christmas candy!" he announces happily, whipping off the cloth to reveal a giant pile of multi-coloured marshmallows. "Do you know I've never had them in different colours before," he says, his grin making him look like a young boy. He points his fingers around the top of the pile, swirling as if trying to decide. "Which one do you think tastes the best?"

Clara smiles. "I think you'll like the pink ones."

He beams and reaches in, digging out a pink one, and plopping it into his mouth. His eyes widen with sheer delight. "Oooh, brilliant choice! We should have these for dessert every day," he says appreciatively, then puts the bowl in her lap. "Here, you have some. I told the children I'd be right back," he explains. "Can you believe they don't have quadricycles here?"

"Bet they'll have one soon, though," she comments knowingly, and he blushes, wobbling his head.

"Well, maybe just the one," he says happily.

He's so animated and whirly, as though he feels it, too: the knowledge that if they were going to get stuck somewhere, landing in the human colony of Christmas, with its laughing children and pink marshmallows, wasn't really the worst thing that could have happened. So she takes his hand in hers and holds tight, tilting her head at him.

"Think you'll be alright then, being stuck here for awhile with a bunch of humans?"

His eyes hold hers a long moment, and his free hand raises to touch her face. "Oh, yes," he whispers, "love a human."

And warmth spreads from the pit of her stomach, out through her limbs, down to her fingertips. "Love a Time Lord," she counters, smiling right along with him.

"Back in a jiff," he says, holding her head with both hands, kissing her quickly on the lips, then taking another pink marshmallow and rushing out the door to the children.

She watches him run, saving the day, as usual. He saves the universe. She saves the Doctor.

Silently, Clara picks up the bowl, then moves to the rocking chair near the crack in the wall, and sits down, grabbing a nearby blanket and wrapping it around her shoulders. She plucks one of the marshmallows into her mouth and lets the airy sugar coat her tongue. The Doctor had said he was taking her for dessert, after all, and now, after so many years of swallowing bitter pain and loss, she sighs at the rush of something so wonderfully sweet. Like her own Doctor, with his fluffy hair and his sugary smell and everything that was _him_ that made her brain go giddy.

Her life is more than sweet, she realizes. It's _complete_, a cosmic mish-mash of good things and bad things, extraordinary adventures, ordinary moments, and the timey-wimey twists of fate that had brought her back to him at long, long, beautiful last.

Clara Oswald gazes once more at the crack in the wall, ready to earn the trust of Gallifrey, and the people who will save the Doctor, in a far off future she's already seen. She takes a deep breath, and begins to rock, her toes just reaching the floor.

"You don't know me yet, but I'm going to tell you a story," she whispers to the glowing crack. "I'll tell you every day that I live so you'll never forget. About a man called the Doctor who gave up his life to protect not one, but two worlds… one belonging to my people, and one belonging to yours…"

She rocks slowly in the chair as she talks, looking at the wall and feeling her happiness waft through the crack as if it were that golden life-energy of the Time Lords. She wraps her arms around her knees and smiles once more, telling them the tale of the man she loves, knowing she's home at last.

* * *

_Epilogue:_

* * *

The Doctor sits alone in his chair beside the crack in the wall, his head bent over a broken toy.

Making the train fly wasn't the problem, but installing a squash court in the third car was proving tricky. His tongue is sticking out slightly as he fiddles with the sonic for a third time, just as a knock on the door breaks his concentration.

They never wait for him to answer. In moments, a dozen children come spilling through the doorway, coming to clamber all over the humble sitting room.

"Story-time!" they chant together, and the Doctor feigns a heavy sigh.

"What's it going to be today? The Bee-Keeper's Wife again?" he asks, his eyes twinkling.

One little girl juts her chin out at him, rocking back and forth. "We already know who that is, Doctor," she informs him.

He gasps in mock surprise. "Do you?"

"Yes," says the little girl with hair the colour of Clara's. "She already told us the stories of how she was born behind the face of some clock called Big Ben."

"Which is why she's so good at time," supplies one of the boys.

"And how she invented fish, because she doesn't like swimming alone," says the girl.

"She doesn't like swimming with gills, either," adds the Doctor, sighing.

The little girl frowns, and he can see she's sure he's teasing her, which of course, he is. "Well," she says triumphantly, "We know those are all about Clara!"

"Someone call me?" he hears Clara's voice, just as her head pops through the archway of the open door, followed by the rest of her.

Her hair is covered by a light dusting of snow, which makes it hard to see the slight flecks of gray that have started to appear at her temples. But to the Doctor, each silver hair, each line on her face is something infinitely precious, a victory of every year that he's gotten to keep her, even while they've fought off the invasion attempts of the hundreds of ships in the sky.

"Clara!" the children cry happily, abandoning the Doctor and running up to her. He doesn't really mind, or even blame them. It's very few souls indeed that could resist the pull of the magnificent woman that is his friend, his companion, the wife of his hearts and the saviour of his soul.

"What are you making today?" the little girl asks her, while the boy beside her wrinkles his nose.

"It's not another burned souffle, is it?" he asks, and the girl beside him grimaces in agreement.

Clara's face falls. "I don't _burn_ them…." she says stubbornly, carefully covering the basket of eggs in her arm with a tartan cloth. "...all the time."

"You do right enough," says the little boy matter-of-factly.

"My dad says they should be used as chemical warfare," the little girl supplies, scratching her nose.

"Told you," the Doctor says sardonically, idly going back to working on the toy, smiling.

She smirks at him. "Maybe if someone hadn't tinkered with our oven to try and turn it into a dry-cleaner."

The Doctor fights down a grin, thinking of ways to use Clara's failed souffles as a new form of weaponry. That's certainly one thing the Daleks would never see coming. He finds himself grinning, anyway, but then, he's had much to smile about during his many years on Christmas, even in the midst of a war.

Fate had been exceedingly kind to him, for reasons even his over-sized brain can't understand.

It's true that the TARDIS still hasn't returned. And he knows now that whenever it was that Tasha had taken his ship to fetch Clara, it was either from a future so far off in the distance that he's destined to grow very old indeed, or else it happened after he actually dies.

But that thought doesn't scare him now. Though he's comforted by the idea that one day he might see his beloved blue ship again, he's just as glad to be able to see Clara every day. And love her every night.

He honestly doesn't know how he would have survived this without her. To spend years, maybe centuries alone, staring out into the bleakness of war and snow and dark alone, loving her from the other side of the universe, never knowing what happened to her- it would have been pure, abject torture. But he's stopped worrying about what might have been, how cruel his fate could have been if he'd endured it all alone.

Once, and only once, he'd confessed to her his fear of what he'd do when her life finally came to a close, probably long before his own would. Clara had been lying in his arms, the way she did every night, her head pressed against his chest, with his hand idly stroking her shoulder. She'd said something that had both comforted and puzzled him.

"Don't worry about that," she'd whispered, pressing a kiss to the bottom of his throat. "You'll see me again."

His stroking of her skin had ceased, and he'd looked down at her, frowning. "What do you mean?"

And she'd lifted a hand to his face, touching his chin, smiling. "Just believe me when I tell you. You'll see me on the other side."

He'd thought of her words for many years afterwards, like a vague sub-routine running through the computer of his mind, because he knew that Clara wasn't particularly religious. He'd also gleaned from experience that she had the ability to tell him only what she wanted to reveal, an unwelcome skill she'd learned during her time away from him.

But, more than both of those things, he knew that Clara wasn't lying and believed what she was saying. She somehow _knew_ that her death wouldn't be their last time together, and that meant that there was a past Clara who had yet to cross paths with his future, perhaps even a future where she'd been forced to witness _his_ death, planting that dull grief in her eyes that he'd seen when she first came back to Trenzalore.

His hearts always beat guiltily when he imagines what new traumas she might have endured on his behalf, the ones of which she's never spoken, and will never speak. And if she's right….. if he is destined to one day see her past self, perhaps long after he's buried the woman now standing a few feet away from him, warm and alive…..

His eyes squeeze shut. He can't imagine what it will be like, seeing that past Clara, who won't know of their life together, their love, and everything she means to him. He wonders how he'll ever be able to keep from yanking her into his arms one last time, confessing everything.

And most of all, he wonders how he'll ever have the strength to send her away a _second_ time, as he knows he must.

He looks over and sees his Clara, surrounded by the children, bringing the basket over to the table, cheerfully telling them a story about the Emperor of the Universe, who was called Porridge and once proposed to marry her, which makes them peal with disbelieving laughter.

"That's worse than the time you said you were a Dalek who listened to opera!" the girl chortles.

Clara glances over at the Doctor, and shakes her head, spreading her arms helplessly, and he smiles and shrugs, laughing. As if pulled by gravity, he then stands up, crossing to her and leaning close.

"Never would have happened anyway. I wasn't about to lose you to the universe, much less its Emperor," he whispers into her ear, loving the way the heat of his breath on her sensitive skin makes her tremble, even after all these years.

She looks at him slyly, and instantly the air leaves him, because she is, to him, still so stunningly beautiful. "Looks like you won, then," she whispers back.

The Doctor's hearts speed up in his chest, and his hands move automatically to her hip, squeezing lightly, as if he wasn't even in control of his own limbs. He's suddenly, inexplicably reminded of the inhibition-lowering cocktails they'd had once, so many years ago, when he literally hadn't been able to keep his hands off of her.

"So tonight you can claim your prize," Clara finishes, and heat pools low in his stomach.

"That," he says, his voice low and soft, "is exactly what I had in mind." He takes her small hand in his, raises it to his lips and then listens to the sound of her gentle laughter washing over him, smoothing his fears, soothing his hearts against the lonely future he knows must one day come.

But for now, this moment, he knows that fate hasn't been just kind to him. It's made him the luckiest man in the whole, wide universe.

The children are now bouncing eagerly around the table, and he resolves to tell one of the shortest stories he knows, hoping that the manic, eager smile he's wearing doesn't _completely_ give him away.

It wouldn't matter if it did. He is the Doctor, the saviour of worlds, protector of Christmas, the story-teller to children, the Time Lord who loves the human woman beside him and always will.

And at long, long last, he is finally something else. He is happy.

* * *

THE END

* * *

**A/N:**

**Wheee! We made it! Once again, my sincerest thanks to all of you who shared this journey with me. I loved reading every single review and hoped that you enjoyed reading as much as I enjoyed writing.**

**Thank you again so much for making this such a great experience. As much as these characters can make me feel, you always made me grin even more, and believe me, that's really saying something! Cheers to you all, and Happy Christmas 2014! **

**\- laurelnola**


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